


Sins of the Flesh

by CorvetteClaire



Series: In the Mirror [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consensual Sex, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Established Relationship, Fanart, Fanart in Chapters 4 & 14, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Prostitution, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 22:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 117,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16901079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvetteClaire/pseuds/CorvetteClaire
Summary: As the dust of war settles, Harry and Draco are separated. Harry tries to build a life without battles, evil overlords or secret lovers. Draco struggles to survive in a world that believes (or wishes) he died with Voldemort. But Harry never stops hoping that he'll find his other half again and put their lives back together.Sequel to "Sins of the Father"FINAL CHAPTER REVISED





	1. Prologue: As the Dust Settles

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is (for those of you who've been waiting), the second part of "Sins of the Father." This story picks up at the end of "Deathly Hallows," with the assumption that most of that story remains true to Canon. I'll fill you in on the bits that don't as we go along, through flashbacks or dialogue. The one big change to remember is that Draco never got the Dark Mark and was bound to Voldemort by an Unbreakable Vow. So he still did Voldemort's bidding but for a different reason.
> 
> This story is smaller in scale than the first part, with no huge battles or evil villains. It's just about Harry and Draco and how they get back to where they're supposed to be.
> 
> This prologue sets the stage for the rest of the story. I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know what you think...

 

_— Hogwarts —_

 

_He’s dead._

Draco stared at the still body in Hagrid’s arms and said the words to himself again, struggling to grasp them.

_Harry is dead._

The universe was collapsing. Evil was all around him. The stench of blood and magic. Corpses tangled in the rubble of the castle he had once loved. Screams. Wailing. Tears. And over it all, the voice of his master, laughing at their despair.

None of it touched Draco.

His eyes dwelled on the broken body on the grass, where the weeping Hagrid had laid it, and something inside him broke with it. His will? His spirit? Whatever it was, he felt it crack and wondered, distantly, if he should weep from the pain, but he had no tears left for himself. He had nothing.

_Harry is dead._

His mother caught his hand and tugged on it. His father grabbed him by the shoulder, urging him to move. Draco could not resist both of them at once, not in his current state, so he surrendered to the habit of obedience and let them pull him away. Together, they scurried across the courtyard, around the side of the castle, and down the carriageway. A huge chunk of crenelated battlements lay in the path, a gargoyle still clinging to it. Draco stepped onto the grass to avoid it, and the gargoyle watched him with pain-dulled eyes.

Did stone gargoyles hurt? He supposed that they must, since he was essentially made of stone, now, and every part of him hurt.

He stumbled over something and looked down.

Bodies. On the grass. A student in Hufflepuff robes, an older woman, an acromantula lying in an obscene tangle of legs.

The lump of stone inside Draco that used to be his heart lurched. He turned his eyes away, stepped over a sprawled limb, let his mother drag him forward. Then he heard shouting and the distinctive crack of magic exploding against stone.

He stopped and turned.

“Draco, no!”

Light flared from behind the shoulder of the castle. It was bright, beautiful and deadly. The power of a hundred wands, all blazing at once. Watching it, Draco felt his throat close up tight with tears.

“We have to go!” Narcissa wailed. “ _Now!_ ”

“Move, boy,” Lucius snarled.

Draco ignored them both. In the distance, voices screamed and magic burst in the air. He watched it with something like longing, his stone heart cracking at the beauty and horror of it. They were dying—all those witches and wizards who had flocked to Hogwarts at Harry’s call, all those soldiers who would fight to the last ditch for their leader, even as he lay dead before them—everyone except Draco. The boy who claimed to love him.

_Harry is dead._

A sob tore out of Draco’s chest, and he began to run. Back up the slope, toward the terrible blaze of light and magic. He didn’t hear his mother screaming or his father cursing, barely felt the spell Lucius sent after him and brushed it off without thinking. He didn’t notice that he held no wand, had no way to defend himself and should not have been able to counter his father’s spell. All that mattered was reaching the battle.

Harry had died to save them. The least Draco could do was die with him. There was no point in living, after all, not in a world that held Voldemort and no Harry Potter.

He bounded up the front steps of the castle, following the sounds of fighting. The entry hall was mostly rubble, with great chunks of stone lying between sprawled bodies and scattered gems—someone had blown apart the hourglasses again. Draco stepped on a huge sapphire, turned his ankle, and tumbled to the floor. Without missing a beat, he bounded to his feet again and made for the Great Hall.

Countless robed figures hovered in the doorway, blocking his view of the room beyond, but he could hear the familiar raptor-screech of his master’s voice and knew that’s where he had to be—with the other people who loved Harry, if not with Harry himself. That’s where he had to die.

So intent was he on reaching the Hall, he didn’t even see the curse. It struck him from the side, flinging him across the entry hall and into the shattered remains of the main stairway. His body struck stone, broke, twisted, rolled off the pile of rubble to lie in a huddle at its base, his head resting on a bloodied arm that protruded from beneath it.

Draco groaned, tried to move, then darkness closed over him.

 

 

— _The Ministry of Magic —_

 

“What do you mean, you _don’t have him?!_ ”

“Just what I said.” Kingsley met Harry’s fulminating glare with a surprised lift of his eyebrow. “We don’t have him.”

“You arrested his parents!”

“Yes, but Draco wasn’t with them. We have no idea where he is.” When Harry continued to glare at him, frustration and power rolling off of him in waves, the Minister laid a calming hand on his arm. “I checked our records when I got your owl. Draco is not in Ministry custody and he has not been seen since the battle.”

“But… but…” Harry spluttered, too gobsmacked to put a whole sentence together, “he _has_ to be here.”

Harry had been so sure, _so sure_ that Draco was in a cell somewhere—Azkaban or the Ministry or one of the half dozen makeshift prisons set up across Britain to hold the mass of Voldemort’s followers—waiting for the Savior to save him, too. That’s all Harry wanted to do. Save Draco. That’s why he’d fought this hideous war. That’s why’d defeated Voldemort. For Draco. And now Draco was…

_Where?_

Kingsley’s hand tightened on his arm, forcing his stunned gaze back into focus.“Almost anything might have happened to him. According to Narcissa, she and Lucius tried to get him away from the battle, but he wouldn’t leave. When he ran back into the castle, he was unarmed.”

Harry groaned and clutched at his head, pulling his hair into erratic spikes. “I have his wand. I took it from him at the Manor. He had his mother’s, but… it must’ve burned.”

Kingsley’s voice softened with sympathy. “Have you considered that he might be among the dead?”

 _Of course I’ve fucking considered it!_ Harry wanted to howl, as a stab of agony cut through him like a Basilisk’s tooth. _Every fucking day I consider it! Every day I have to wake up without him!_

“I checked the Hogwarts casualty lists,” he muttered instead. “He isn’t on them.”

“They haven’t found all the bodies yet, much less identified them. The same is true of the wounded. He may still turn up. You just have to be patient.”

Harry just shook his head, too sickened for words.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I don’t know what else to suggest. We’ve barely begun to restore order after years of terror and chaos. It will take years more to find all the missing and dead, not to mention a fair number of Death Eaters who have eluded capture.” His voice dropped another soothing notch. “Where have you looked?”

“Everywhere,” Harry said dully.

This wasn’t far from wrong. In the aftermath of the battle, Harry had searched for Draco tirelessly. First the castle and grounds, then the Manor, the various properties owned by the Black and Malfoy families, his own house at Grimmauld Place, and even the Burrow—improbable as it seemed that Draco would go to the Weasleys for help. He had contacted every friend and acquaintance, every member of Draco’s family who was not currently under arrest. He had combed the lists of the dead and wounded, hoping and praying not to see Draco’s name, then almost weeping with frustration when he didn’t. He had even sent out owls with letters addressed to Draco Malfoy, hoping one of them would find him when Harry couldn’t. They had all come back, their letters undelivered. When he’d tried to cast a Patronus, he couldn’t.

The Ministry was his last resort, and now it had failed him. Everyone had failed, but Harry most of all.

“He may have left the country,” Kingsley offered, “or gone into hiding with some of Voldemort’s supporters.”

 _With the men who raped and tortured him. Yeah, that’ll happen,_ Harry thought bitterly.

“He may simply be waiting for some sign that it’s safe to show his face in Wizarding Britain. He’ll likely assume that he’s on the list of wanted Death Eaters.”

“Is he?” Harry countered.

Kingsley paused for a beat. “Yes.”

“That’s bollocks and you know it.”

“Of course I do but in order to change it, Draco has to come forward, tell the truth about what Voldemort did to him, and clear his name.”

“Except that he won’t come forward as long as he knows he’ll be arrested for doing it. Especially with both of his parents headed to Azkaban and his family estate in the Ministry’s hands.”

Kingsley shrugged apologetically. “I can’t fix this without Draco’s help.”

“You could convince the Wizengamot that he’s not a Death Eater. Tell them what you know. Get him off their list of wanted criminals and leak it to the papers.”

“Lure him out of hiding?”

“Yes. I’ll help. If the Chosen One makes a public statement about his innocence, people will listen. Maybe Draco will hear it and reach out to me.”

Deep, dark, kind eyes dwelled on Harry’s face for a moment, and he felt a flare of hope that he’d actually gotten through to the other man. Then Kingsley sighed and his hope fled.

“You realize that Draco Malfoy is almost certainly dead.”

Anger flared, hot and horrible, in him, and he had a momentary impulse to hex Kingsley where he stood. Right on its heels came the urge to tear his hair and scream his denial at the universe.

Draco was not dead! _He was not!_ Because if Draco was dead, Harry had no reason to keep breathing!

Through his rage and clenched teeth, he ground out, “Even if he is—which he’s _not_ —does that mean I should just abandon him? Let the world go on thinking that he’s no better than his fucking _father?!_ ”

“What do you want me to say?” Kingsley demanded, his frustration visibly building to match Harry’s. “That I’ll drop everything to salvage the reputation of a dead man?!”

“He isn’t dead!” Harry railed, his entire body tensed and coiled as if for battle, his magic sparking beneath his skin and threatening to explode out of him. “He’s out there somewhere and he _needs us!_ ”

“He’ll have to get in line! I have the entire Wizarding world looking to me for safety, stability and healing. I have too few people to do far too many jobs, dangerous war criminals still on the loose, and more of them crowding our prisons than I can possibly handle. People are angry, frightened, grieving. They don’t want to hear about one seventeen-year-old boy who might or might not have been a Death Eater, but who’s no threat to them anyway because he’s fallen off the face of the Earth. They want to hear about the fugitives I’ve arrested and the murderers I’ve sent to Azkaban. About the missing loved ones I’ve found, the families I’ve reunited, the buildings I’ve restored to their former glory. And that’s only a week into our fragile, new peace! Just wait until it’s been a month, or a year, and Hogwarts still has holes in the walls or Rodolphus Lestrange is still out there killing people!

“Honestly, my boy, do you have any idea of the challenges we face? Of the desperate need for trained Aurors, barristers, judges, investigators, prison guards and curse-breakers, to name just a few of the vital jobs going begging? I have to find enough professors to staff Hogwarts by September, if I can put the castle back together by then. I have to process and try more than a hundred of Voldemort’s supporters. I have to dismantle the wards on a dozen properties owned by Death Eaters and Dark wizards, confiscate and examine a mountain of dangerous magical artifacts, and decide which of our most ancient families will pay for all of this with their fortunes. Then I have to prise those fortunes out of the Gringott’s goblins, possibly at wand-point. And that’s _before_ I launch a full-scale investigation to prove that Harry Potter is right about Draco Malfoy and the rest of Wizarding Britain is wrong!”

He broke off, panting a little, and Harry gazed at him in bemusement. He suddenly felt about an inch tall.

“I… I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

Kingsley seemed to deflate as the righteous indignation drained out of him. He reached out to clasp Harry’s shoulder, and a decidedly sheepish smile creased his face. “You were thinking about Draco and how badly you want to help him. I don’t fault you for that.”

“But _you_ can’t help him.”

“I can’t, in good conscience, squander resources I don’t have to save the reputation of a dead man. Not now. Not when so much depends on what we accomplish in the coming months.”

“And if he is alive?”

“Then find him and bring him to me. I’ll do everything in my power to protect him.”

Harry nodded once. “Fair enough.” He turned to leave the office but paused halfway out the door to say, “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of me. I won’t stop looking, and I won’t stop trying to set the record straight.”

Kingsley broke out in his slow, wide smile. “I would expect no less. You are Harry Potter, after all, and you never stop.”

_I am Harry Potter._

He let that thought play in his head as he trudged down the corridor toward the lift, footsteps silent in the plush carpet.

_I am Harry Potter._

Why didn’t that make him feel better?

Maybe because, without Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter was only half a person.

 

 

_— St. Mungo’s —_

 

He awoke slowly, gently, as if rising up through heavy water until his head broke the surface. It was surprisingly easy. One moment he was drifting in the secretive darkness and the next he was lying in a bed, wrapped in blankets and a warming spell, wondering how he’d gotten here.

His eyes fluttered open, then screwed shut against the light. A diffuse pain filled him, pooling in his half-healed wounds and lapping softly around his limbs, trying to draw him back down into that dark lake of unconsciousness. He had floated in it for an uncounted time, and part of him longed for it still, but he refused to succumb. He was done with hiding in the dark. He wanted to be here in the light and the air. He wanted to exist again.

Taking a careful breath, Draco slitted his eyes open and blinked to banish the tears that clogged his lashes. It took a moment for his pupils to adjust, then he let his gaze wander, taking in his surroundings. Dark wood paneling. Unlit candles floating in crystal bubbles near the ceiling. A single window swaddled in white curtains that bled sunlight into the room. Scratchy, stiff sheets against his skin and an institutional blanket under his hands.

St. Mungo’s, he guessed, or some other wizarding hospital that used the same decorator.

Lifting his hand with some effort—he had to pull it free of the clinging, dragging pain to move it—he touched his face. From the inside it felt stiff and sore, as if the skin had been torn and newly knitted together. On the outside, his fingertips found the traces of wounds, still smooth with fresh scar tissue and swollen with bruises. He followed them down the left side of his face, from his hairline to the point of his chin. And as he fingered the scars, he had a flash of memory—red light in the corner of his eye, power slamming into his ribs, broken stone rushing to meet him.

He spread his hand to cover his eyes, pressing his thumb and finger into the lids and holding them tightly closed.

In the darkness, the memories came more quickly. They were fragmented, a confused mosaic of images and sensations, but they told him all he needed to know.

Harry lying broken in Hagrid’s arms. Voldemort shrieking with laughter as the Sorting Hat burst into flame on Longbottom’s head. McGonagall crying out in horror. His father’s face, white and furious, as Draco pulled away from his grasp. The wandless burst of power that flowed out of him when Lucius tried to restrain him. Magic and screams and blood and pain and…

Harry dead on the grass.

Harry. Dead.

And _he_ was still alive because he had failed again.

Suddenly, the thought of existing was unbearable. He wanted his black lake of sleep. He wanted his stone heart to drag him down to its depths, pin him there, let him drown. Why had he fought it? Why had he chosen _this_ , when he might have stayed forever in the painless darkness?

The door to his left opened, jolting Draco out of his black reverie. He looked over to see a squat, homely, motherly-looking witch come through it. The crisp, white veil she wore—just like Pomfrey’s, Draco thought, with a pang of homesickness—identified her as a nurse, as did the tray of potions and salves she carried. The healers must have set a charm to warn them when their patient stirred, because she showed no sign of surprise at finding his eyes open and fixed on her. As she crossed to the bed, she smiled in a way that said she longed to cradle his head against her ample bosom and smooth the tangled hair out of his eyes.

Draco briefly wished that she would. Then he remembered that he was supposed to be dead and had no right to ask for comfort. He did not return her smile.

Setting down her tray, she bent over him. A hand fell on his hair, stroking it lightly, while faded blue eyes gazed intently into his own. “There, now. I knew you’d come back to us, sooner or later.”

She sounded just like Molly Weasley. Maybe it was a Mother thing. Draco felt his chest tighten in response and something suspiciously like tears sting his eyes.

“Are you in pain, my dear?”

It cost him an effort to speak—what with the lump in his throat, the ache in his body, and the furry dryness of his tongue—but he managed to croak out, “Not much.”

“You slept through the worst of it, I expect. But I’ll wager you could use a drink of water.”

“Please,” he whispered, then regretted it when she lifted his head and ignited a flare of pain behind his eyes. Grunting and clenching his eyes shut, he obediently opened his mouth to accept the rim of the glass she offered. Cool water flowed between his cracked lips and over his parched tongue, turning his grunt of pain to a sigh of relief. He swallowed and swallowed again, then sank gratefully back into the pillow when she released him.

“That will help with the headache as well. Just relax for a few minutes.”

She busied herself straightening his blankets and pouring out doses of potions from the phials on the tray. Then she drew her wand and waved it over him, murmuring spells he didn’t recognize. The magic didn’t hurt, but it sent a tingling over his skin that made him acutely aware of the fresh injuries both on and under it.

“You took a bad hit of Dark magic,” she said, when she caught his questioning gaze, “a spell our healers didn’t recognize. We’ve had a lot of that recently—all sorts of ugly new curses that are keeping us on our toes—but we’re finding new healing techniques every day. Never you fear,” she added, with another motherly smile, “you’re going to be just fine.”

Lifting a glass from the tray, she held it out to him. Themixture of potions in it roiled and swirled a bit sickeningly, but the scent that rose from it was surprisingly bright. Like freshly-cut flowers and ginger.

“Get that into you. Can you hold the glass yourself?”

Draco grunted a wordless affirmative and took the glass from her hand. His head barely hurt this time when he raised it from the pillow. The potions slid pleasantly down his throat. He detected hellebore and lavender, which explained the smell. With another grunt, this one of approval, he drained the glass and handed it back to the nurse.

She set it on the tray, folded her hands in her white apron, and gazed down at him. “Now that you’re feeling better, are you ready to talk?”

“About what?” Draco asked, in a ghostly whisper.

“Let’s start with your name.”

He felt his eyebrows—once so prone to arching sardonically and now so oddly stiff—drift up his forehead.

His name? Didn’t everyone know his name?

When he didn’t speak at once, she said, “It’s all right, my dear. The war’s over and you’re safe. I can see that you’ve had a hard time of it, but that’s all done and you don’t have to be afraid. Just tell me your name.”

He stared at her with hollow, hunted eyes, while behind them, he scrambled for an answer. He needed a name—something innocuous, with no hint of pureblood heritage behind it—as far from Draco Malfoy as could possibly be. Something _Muggle._

He remembered a boy, a Gryffindor, trailing in Harry’s wake. Small, blond, moon-faced, a camera always in his hand. A Muggleborn who exuded delight and fascination with all things magical. What was his name? Draco knew he’d heard it once or twice…

“Colin.”

The nurse gave him another kindly smile. “Can I call someone for you, Colin? A family member? A friend?”

“No.” He thought of Harry on the grass at Hagrid’s feet and murmured, “They’re all dead.”

“I’m sorry.” Her face said that she was truly sorry but that she’d heard those words so often of late that they barely touched her anymore. Patting his knee through the blanket, she said in a bracing way, “You get some rest now, my dear, and I’ll be back later with your supper. Maybe you’ll be up for a chat with your healer by then.”

She picked up her tray and turned to leave. Draco let her get as far as the door before he halted her with a question.

“Who won?”

She stopped, turned back, and broke out in a smile unlike any he’d seen on her before. It fairly blazed with happiness. “Harry Potter, of course!”

The door fell shut behind her, leaving Draco lying frozen in his bed, her words having struck him like a Body Bind curse.

_Harry Potter, of course._

Harry Potter had won the war. Of course. Except that Harry was dead and Draco was losing his mind—driven insane by loss and grief and shame at everything he had done and failed to do over the last two catastrophic years. That was the only explanation. He couldn’t have heard right. He couldn’t actually be lying here in St. Mungo’s with Mrs. Weasley’s identical twin fussing over him, hearing that Harry had won the war and set the world free.

Closing his eyes, he twisted onto his side and buried his face in the pillow.

He was in the dungeon beneath Malfoy Manor, awaiting punishment at Voldemort’s hands or lying in his own bed, awaiting his next buyer. His father still bartered his body for power, while his mother still watched from the sidelines, stubbornly refusing to believe what she saw. The Vow still burned in his hand, warning him that his master was relishing his degradation. And outside the Manor’s lofty doors, the Wizarding world was still trapped in eternal darkness.

Because Harry was dead and Draco was utterly insane.

 

 

— _The Burrow —_

 

Harry sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea at his elbow and a buttered scone in his hand, staring sightlessly at the front page of the newspaper Hermione held. She sat across from him with the _Daily Prophet_ obscuring her face, turning a page every so often and shaking the paper to keep it upright. Ron, meanwhile, pottered about the kitchen, humming tunelessly, chewing on a scone but clearly looking for something more substantial to eat.

None of them spoke. The mood in the room was peaceful, if a touch melancholy, the three friends taking simple comfort in each other’s company without acknowledging it. Harry had grown used to this state of quiet mourning in the weeks since Fred’s death. The grief had softened over time, but it was still a weight on all their hearts.

He took another bite from his scone and wondered idly what the hacks at the _Prophet_ had to say about him today. It had been nearly two months since the battle, and so far, his name and picture had appeared in every, single issue of the paper—usually plastered all over the front page. Today it was Kingsley in the spotlight, talking to reporters in the Ministry Atrium, but Harry was quite sure he had a few inches of copy somewhere inside.

Good thing he didn’t give a fuck what the _Prophet_ had to say anymore.

“Oh, my!”

At Hermione’s startled exclamation, Ron peered over the open door of the icebox. “What’s up?”

“Look at this, Harry.”

Spreading the paper on the table, she slid it over to him and pointed to a small photo. Harry pulled it close. His glasses had slid down his nose, so he shoved them into place and squinted down at the picture. It showed a rotund man in overly-tight, outmoded clothes and embroidered robes, standing beneath a tall, imposing, and very familiar portico. The little man was grinning widely, bouncing up on the balls of his feet, and shooting sideways looks at a white peacock that eyed him threateningly from the gravel sweep at the foot of the steps.

“That’s Malfoy Manor.” He glanced up at Hermione and caught her little nod. She was gnawing her lip, and her eyes were troubled. “Who’s this berk, and what’s he doing at the Manor?”

“They sold it.”

“ _What?_ Who?”

“Just read the story, mate,” Ron advised, sidling over to stand at Harry’s shoulder, where he could see the paper.

Harry dropped his gaze to the page and quickly scanned the short article. “I don’t get it. How could the Ministry sell Malfoy Manor to this… this Boggs bloke, when they don’t even know what’s happened to Draco? He’s the legal heir. It’s his house, whatever the Wizengamot decides to do with Lucius.”

“Well, they confiscated it, didn’t they?” Ron said. “They took the whole lot. We knew that.”

“Yeah, but…” He broke off, disbelief giving way to outrage. “That was temporary, ’til they found Draco. I mean, they have to give it back to him, don’t they? Once we prove he isn’t a war criminal?”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed.

“Don’t do that! Don’t treat me like a blithering idiot!”

“I’m not…”

“I talked to Kingsley! He knows Draco isn’t a Death Eater, and he promised to help me prove it, once we find him! So how could he let them sell Draco’s home out from under him?!”

“I don’t think the Wizengamot cares whether or not Draco was… _is_ a Death Eater,” Hermione said sadly. “They confiscated the entire Malfoy estate, and most of the Black estate, too, even with you and Teddy both legally entitled to inherit. If they’re willing to take an inheritance from _you_ , what makes you think they wouldn’t take one from Lucius Malfoy’s son?”

“Because it’s fucking _wrong!_ ” Harry growled.

“That depends on how you look at it, doesn’t it?” Hermione retorted, ever the budding barrister. “The Malfoy family has practiced the Dark Arts for centuries. Lucius and Narcissa supported Voldemort in two wars, served him loyally, committed horrible crimes in his name, and even let him live in their house. If anyone should help pay for the damage this war has done to our world, it’s them.”

“But not Draco.”

She sighed and opened her mouth, ready to try again to convince him, but Ron quickly stepped in to deflect her.

“What I’d like to know is how they managed to sell the Manor so fast. Whose got the gold to buy a pile like that? And who’d want to live in it after You-Know-Who did?”

“Probably someone as sick and twisted as Fucking Lucius,” Harry ground out. It had been a long time since he’d thought of Draco’s father by any other name, and even the presence of Ron’s mother or the Minister for Magic could get him to moderate his language. Ron and Hermione accepted it without a blink.

“Or he’s a collector,” Hermione offered. “Like those people who think it’s exciting to sleep in a flat where a Serial Killer lived.”

“Or maybe he’s just stinking rich and can afford to gut the entire building,” Ron finished.

Harry scanned the article again, this time looking for information on the buyer. “His name is Phineas Boggs. It says he’s an entrepreneur from Manchester who invented some kind of special finish for broomsticks. Made a fortune at it.”

“Doesn’t sound too Dark to me.”

Hermione snorted. “Of course not. It’s about Quidditch, so it must be all right.”

“Well, I have to agree with him,” Harry said reluctantly, his eyes dwelling on the little man beaming in the photo. “It’s kind of hard to picture the Broom Varnish Baron, here, torturing Muggles or cast Unforgivables.”

Hermione huffed and rolled her eyes, but the little smile she wore betrayed her. She didn’t think Phineas Boggs was an evil genius, either. She was just being contrary.

Harry stared at the photo for another minute, thinking hard, then suddenly smacked his hand down on it and announced, “I’m going back.”

“To the Manor?” Hermione demanded, startled.

“Yes.”

“Not again,” Ron groaned. “Harry, this’ll be—what? Your fifth trip?”

“Third. And anyway, that’s not the point. The other times I couldn’t really do much because of the wards set by the Ministry. But now there’s an owner who can give me permission to look around. Or at least tell me if he’s seen any sign of Draco.”

“You know he isn’t there.”

“No, I don’t.” Bounding to his feet, Harry headed for the stairs and Ron’s room where his invisibility cloak waited. “Don’t waste your breath trying to talk me out of it because I’m going.”

* * *

A sharp crack announced Harry’s arrival in a narrow country lane. Brambles lined one side of the roadway, a high Yew hedge the other. Trees soared above the hedge and leaned over it, throwing shade over the young man hidden beneath his invisibility cloak.

Harry paused and turned on his heel, taking in the scenery, remembering the last time he had stood in this lane. He’d been bound and disarmed, the prisoner of a werewolf Death Eater, his face swollen with a Stinging hex, his glasses off and his vision blurred. He’d been terrified, sure that Voldemort waited for him on the other side of that hedge. Then he’d seen Draco—his first glimpse of his lover in nearly a year—and his heart had soared in spite of his peril.

Maybe it would happen again. His stomach clenched at the thought. Maybe Draco was waiting for him behind that hedge, ready to rush into his arms as he hadn’t been able to do for so many terrible months. Voldemort was dead and the Unbreakable Vow with him. Draco was free. They were both _free_ , if Harry could just find him!

Full of bubbling excitement, Harry began running down the lane, following the hedge to where it curved inward along a wide driveway. He pulled to a stop at the towering wrought-iron gates and, after a bare moment of hesitation, pulled off his cloak.

“Harry Potter to see Phineas Boggs!” he called loudly to no one in particular.

There was a beat of silence, then the gates swung smoothly inward.

Harry started running again, not caring that he would arrive at the doors panting and red in the face. The drive was as long and grandiose as he remembered it, with the tall hedges giving way to formal gardens dotted with those idiotic peacocks. A fountain tinkled merrily in the middle of a knot garden. A sweep of grass led down to a sheet of ornamental water. And even in his overwrought state, Harry noticed that it was all pristine, as if the war had never happened and an evil megalomaniacal Dark Lord had never polluted these grounds. Either Lucius had managed to keep up appearances in spite of everything, or Phineas Boggs worked quickly.

The enormous front doors swung silently open as Harry leapt up the marble steps to reach them. A servant—human, not house-elf—stood in the opening. He wore a cutaway coat, knee breeches, white gloves, and—Merlin, help us—a powdered wig, but if he realized how ridiculous he looked, his face did not betray it. Apparently, in addition to keeping his grounds in impeccable order, Mr. Boggs watched too many BBC period dramas.

“Mr. Potter. If you’ll come this way.”

Harry nodded and stepped into the dim, cool, portrait-lined hall, his feet sinking into the sumptuous carpet. He looked around a touch nervously, noting that little had changed since his last visit, except that the air of bone-chilling evil was gone. If Boggs had any intention of expunging the memory of the Malfoys from their ancestral home, he hadn’t gotten round to it yet. The portraits all bore a strong resemblance to Fucking Lucius, and even the carpet looked familiar. But there was no sign of Draco.

Before the footman could lead him into the parlor, another man came mincing through a rear door and crossed the hall toward him, calling, “Mr. Potter! What an honor!”

Harry instantly recognize the man from his photo in the _Prophet_. He was even shorter, rounder, and more tightly packed into his clothes than in the picture. His suit was as old-fashioned as the one the footman wore, though without the gloves and wig, and it looked as if only magic held the seams together across his spherical tummy. His thin hair lay slicked down on his scalp, and his many chins quivered with ecstasy at the sight of the Chosen One in his entry hall.

As he scurried over, his hand out, Harry felt a wave of cold go through him. He shook the offered hand but dropped it as quickly as courtesy allowed. Something about Phineas Boggs was off. His gushing enthusiasm was as fake as his footman’s powdered hair, and the wide, childlike eyes hid a brain of Slytherin cunning.

“Welcome to my home, Mr. Potter! A thousand welcomes! Beautiful, isn’t she? Such a magnificent, old building.” He bounced up on the balls of his feet and peered around him with seeming delight. Then he cast an abashed look at Harry and added, “Of course, you’ve been here before, haven’t you? But I hope you won’t hold it against her. It’s not her fault, after all, and already the wounds are healing. We’ll have her back to her former glory before long.”

“Yes, er,” Harry mumbled helplessly.

“But where are my manners?” Phineas said brightly. “Let me offer you a drink? Some tea, perhaps? Alistair, where are you…”

“No,” Harry cut in ruthlessly. “Thank you, but I don’t have time for tea.”

“No? Well, then, Mr. Potter—or may I call you Harry?”

Harry ignored this, choosing to plow ahead with his business. “I actually came here to ask for your permission to search the grounds and house.”

“Search?” Phineas’ expression of baffled surprise was almost perfect. “Search my grounds? Whatever for?”

“Any sign of… trespassers.”

Phineas gave him a twinkling smile that made his skin itch. “I can assure you that there have been no trespassers on the grounds since… well, the unfortunate removal of the previous owner. The Ministry’s wards were quite impenetrable, and the place was thoroughly searched by Aurors on multiple occasions. I made sure of that before I took possession. Can’t be too careful with these old, pureblood estates, after all. You never know what might be lurking in a cupboard.”

“I’d still like to look around.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Potter, truly sorry, but I can’t allow that.”

“Please,” Harry cried in growing desperation, “I’m not looking for contraband or anything, I just want to find…”

“What?”

A flush crept into Harry’s cheeks, in spite of his best efforts. “Draco Malfoy.”

Phineas’ look of regret might have been sincere, though Harry doubted it. “Draco Malfoy is not on my estate, I’m sorry to say.”

“How? How can you be sure? He’s lived in this house all his life and could get it do things for him that it wouldn’t for a stranger, including hide him from Aurors!”

“What makes you think it won’t hide him from _you?_ ”

Harry’s flush deepened. “He wouldn’t want it to.”

Phineas cast an ostentatious look about the room, as if expecting Draco to materialize from behind a tapestry, and called loudly, “Mr. Malfoy? You have a visitor!”

When no one answered, he turned a sympathetic smile on Harry. “You see? No Malfoy ghosts lurking in the wainscoting. If hesitate to say it, you’re most likely to find your friend under the rubble of Hogwarts. Rumor has it that he died there.”

“Rumor is wrong,” Harry snapped.

“Well, then, I wish you luck in your search, but there really is no point in searching here. Now, if there’s nothing else…?”

With a final, fulminating look about the hall, Harry turned for the door which the stolid Alistair held open for him. “I know Draco is alive,” he said, as Phineas moved with him, “and I’m sure he’ll come here eventually. This is the only home he has. When he does turn up, would you send me an owl?”

“But of course, Mr. Potter.”

“He may be in trouble—broke, alone, maybe hurt. I’d appreciate any help you can give him. And I’d repay you.”

“Nonsense. It would be my pleasure to do a favor for the Chosen One.”

Harry winced at that but let it slide. “Thank you.” He hesitated on the front stoop and shot a final, pleading look back at Phineas. “You’re sure he isn’t hiding here somewhere…?”

“Quite sure. Good day, Mr. Potter.”

The door shut firmly in his face, leaving Harry alone on the stoop. He turned slowly to gaze out at the lavish grounds, green and glowing in the summer sunshine. They were achingly beautiful, but it was not their beauty that tightened his throat or brought the tears up in his eyes. It was loneliness.

Draco was gone and Harry had no idea where to look for him.

 

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry. I won't keep our boys apart for long. I hate it when I have to wade through twenty chapters (or even ten) to see Harry and Draco together, so I promise not to put you through that!
> 
> Thanks for reading. :)


	2. The Ghost in the Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the tags on this story and make sure it's something you can tolerate before you read this chapter. I wouldn't want anyone to get upset by it.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

_— Three years later —_

 

He sat at the cluttered dressing table, holding a brush expertly in one hand, and leaned forward to study his reflection in the mirror. A tilt of his head threw the candlelight over his pale, pointed, aristocratic features and seemed to soften the sharp planes of his face. Brushing a cascade of silver-gilt hair back to expose his right eye, he flicked the brush over its lid, artistically smudging the charcoal that lined it. Eyes so pale a grey that they looked nearly blind gazed thoughtfully out from between blackened lashes, studying the result. With a terse nod of satisfaction, he let the hair fall loose again to half-cover his eye and turned his attention to painting his lips with a coat of deep, sensual, bloody crimson.

Of course, he could have used a wand to apply his makeup, but that would ruin the effect. His audience didn’t want magical perfection. They wanted something tangible and visceral—lipstick that would smear against another pair of lips and mascara that ran with his tears. They wanted to see and feel and taste his humanity. They wanted…

 _Vulnerability_. That was the word.

He lifted his chin to inspect the finished canvas, resisting the urge to bite his lip and get lipstick on his teeth.

 _Vulnerable_ wasn’t an easy look to achieve when you were made entirely of sharp edges and ice. The haunted look in his eyes helped—that sense that something not quite human was looking out of them—and the hair. The soft curtain of platinum that hung down past his waist and fell over his face in long, untrimmed, overgrown layers. It turned him from a hard, spare, feral thing into a starveling waif wrapped in a gleaming shroud.

The ghost of Draco Malfoy.

A knock fell on the door. He twisted round in his chair to see Nero waddle through it and immediately felt the room shrink to half its usual size.

The dressing room was a tiny space to begin with, no bigger than the shower in his old bathroom at the Manor. The dressing table, wardrobe and tufted, velvet chaise filled it to capacity, and while a curtained alcove in the righthand wall held a large bed, that hardly qualified as floor space. Draco never opened the curtain if he could help it, anyway, choosing to sit, eat, sleep and fuck on the chaise rather than the bed.

Nero on the other hand, was a big man by any standards, and his flamboyant personality made him seem even larger. Much too large for such a small space. He blew in without waiting for permission—why would he, when he owned the man in the room as surely as the room itself?—and struck a dramatic pose with one hand on the jamb.

“Fifteen minutes, ducks,” he announced.

Draco nodded and turned back to his mirror, catching Nero’s eyes in it. The other man was studying him in a narrow, calculating way that belied his childish face and simpering manner. Draco knew that look very well. He was subject to it every time he stepped onstage, ever since the night he’d tried to perform when he was too loaded to stay on his feet.

Nero had forgiven his pet that little slip—after a harsh lesson that cost him half a bottle of dittany and three days in bed, unpaid, to recover—but he never quite forgot it. And he never let Draco forget, either.

“All right?”

“Of course,” Draco answered quietly.

“Let’s have a look at you, then.”

Always docile, Draco rose to his feet and let his silk dressing gown drop from his shoulders to reveal the costume underneath. He spun neatly on his heel, hands lifted slightly, long hair brushing the upper curve of his arse as he moved. Nero stepped forward and caught his hands to still him, spread his arms wide, then eyed him up and down.

“That’s my beauty.” He let go of Draco’s hand to squeeze his bum possessively. “Almost too good to share.”

Draco said nothing to this, just smiled slightly and leaned in when Nero moved to give him a smacking air-kiss that didn’t quite smudge the makeup on his cheek.

“There’s a good crowd tonight, all primed and ready for you, pet. Get your lovely arse out there and make them happy.”

“I always do.”

Nero chuckled at that, gave him a final squeeze, and whirled toward the door with surprising grace for his size. “Five minutes!” Giving a twiddling wave of his fingers, he nipped out of the dressing room.

Draco watched him leave, watched the door close behind him, then turned back to give his costume a final check. He was dressed in a bodystocking so sheer that it first appeared transparent. It revealed every jut of bone, every curve and plane of muscle on his body, but what seemed no more than a transparent film was actually alive with subtle colors and patterns. As he turned, the candlelight revealed paisleys picked out in pinks, yellows and oranges. They moved with him, as if painted directly on his skin, and vanished when the light shifted.

It was baffling to the eye. More a work of body art than clothing. It drove men wild with lust and the urge to tear it off of him or to trace every line of color with their fingers and tongues. Draco knew this, just as he knew that men found him desirable, but he didn’t understand it.

When his faded, grey eyes traveled over his body in the mirror, all he saw was a thing of hair and bone and scars. Somehow both hard and insubstantial. The ghost of his former self, and yet still too solid for his own comfort. Who would want that?

With an inward sigh, he turned away from the mirror.

Nero’s compliments still hung in the air like the sickly-sweet smell of gardenias, reminding him of the real, comforting sweetness that waited for him in his dressing table drawer. It made his mouth water, and he looked longingly at the drawer before tearing his eyes away with a shudder. Then, driven by the need in his gut, he plucked a bottle of Firewhiskey from the litter on the table top and knocked back a mouthful of the burning liquor.

It was never a good idea to look at himself too closely before the first set. Still early in the evening, nothing in his system to warm his blood, an endless night of performance on and off the stage ahead of him, and all those men…

He took another drink, slammed the bottle down a little harder than necessary, and took another look at his reflection.

All those fucking men… No, not a good idea to look. Better to paint on his prettiest face, march out of the room, and get down to it without giving himself time to think, because thinking was dangerous. It started the hunger churning in him—for the boy he used to be, the boy he used to love, and the only thing that killed the pain.

He squared his shoulders and turned his back on the mirror.

 _A ghost feels no pain_ , he told himself as he strode out of the room on bare, silent feet, _just as it feels no shame. It longs for nothing because it needs nothing. It doesn’t hate or love or cry or laugh. It exists. That’s all. I can do that._

Yes, he could do that. He’d done it for years. What was one more night?

 

*** *** ***

 

Ron pushed aside a fat roll of parchment and slammed his quill down on the desk. With a groan and a sigh, he stretched his arms over his head until the joints popped, then he thrust his long legs out under the desk and closed his eyes.

“I’m fucking done.”

Harry glanced up from his own report, eyes crinkled in a tired smile. “I’ll finish it up, if you want to get home.”

“You will not. You’re coming with me to the pub for a pint and plate of seriously greasy chips.”

“No protein?”

“Only if you want to cheese me off.”

Harry laughed. “Since when does eating meat cheese you off?”

“I want to abuse my body for once. Nothing green. Nothing with actual nutrients in it. Just grease and salt and starch. And booze, of course.”

“I take it that Hermione won’t be joining us.”

Ron perked up at that. “Us? Does that mean you’re coming with?”

“I doubt it.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“No reason except that I want to share a drink with my partner and best mate.” Under Harry’s pointed gaze, he flushed and harrumphed and finally admitted, “And, maybe, because I promised Hermione that I’d get you out for the evening. She’s worried about you.”

“Setting me up again, more like,” Harry grumbled.

“She is not! No way! Not a chance!”

“Uh-huh.”

“It isn’t like that.”

“Who’d she dig up for me, this time? Is it that tall bloke in Records? The one with the permanent squint from staring at faded parchments? Or is she back to girls?”

“No girls,” Ron insisted, then, before Harry could make the obvious jump, “No blokes, either! Honestly, when did you get to be so suspicious?”

“About the third or fourth time I walked into the Leaky Cauldron to find some strange man sitting beside Hermione. The blonds were particularly unsubtle—and more than a little insulting, I have to say.”

“Right. You’re right. But you have to see it from her point of view.”

“I do not.”

“Come on, Harry. We’re your oldest friends. We love you and we worry about you.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. I’m perfectly fine.”

“Living alone in a cottage in Gloucestershire, surrounded by Muggles, with only a snarky cat for company?”

“He’s not…”

“He is. And don’t ask me how I know when a cat is snarking, because I can’t explain it. I just _do._ I also know perfectly well why you put up with it. Only, you might as well have named the little git Malfoy, since you’re not fooling anyone.”

“His name is Abraxas,” Harry said severely, a faint flush staining his cheeks.

“Yeah, because that’s subtle. How many of Ferret’s ancestors were called that? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

Harry’s flush deepened. “I like that name. It’s… dignified.”

Of course he’d fallen for the palest, snarkiest, most superior cat that ever deigned to tread the earth with its pristine paws. _Of course_ it reminded him of Draco. He wasn’t fooling anyone and wasn’t really trying. But Ron didn’t have to take the mickey over it.

“The cat is neither here nor there,” Ron said firmly, sounding far too much like his wife for Harry’s comfort. “The point is that you don’t _live_ , Harry. You _exist._ And as your friend, I’d like to see you do better.”

Harry sighed. “Like I did with Ginny?”

Ron had the grace to look shamefaced at the mention of his sister. “Let’s not go there.”

“Sorry. That was a low blow. I know the mess with Ginny wasn’t your fault—yours or Hermione’s.”

“Whoever was to blame, it’s over with no damage done. In fact, Gin may be there tonight. You two could…”

“Reminisce? I don’t think.”

“Catch up,” Ron corrected him. “You can try to sell that ‘I’m perfectly fine’ thing to _her_ and see how it goes.”

“Well, I am. And so’s she, if her constant parade of boyfriends is anything to go by.”

“Just come and talk to her.”

Harry sighed and ruffled his hair again. “Not tonight.”

“Harry…”

The note of genuine concern in his voice brought Harry’s eyes up with a start. The look on Ron’s face warmed his heart and made it ache at the same time. His best mate was about to say something sweet and sincere and terribly painful.

“You can’t wait for Ferret forever.”

There it was. The knife twisting in the wound, the kindness poured like salt over it.

“I’m not waiting. Not exactly,” Harry murmured. “I’m just… existing, like you said.”

“And that’s the best you can do without him?”

“For now.” Harry gave him a wry, crooked smile. “It’s really not that bad. I’m… happy, I guess. Or contented, maybe, is a better word for it. I love being an Auror. It’s important work, and I’m good at it.”

“Not good, great. The best. Even that pillock Robards knows it.”

Harry smiled again, shrugging off the compliment. “I have a comfortable home and friends I love—when they aren’t trying to hook me up with random blokes in pubs, that is.” Ron blushed again and rolled his eyes. “Abraxas may be snarky, but he’s excellent company, and I like the attitude. It kind of… fills in an empty place in my life—grey eyes, pale hair and snark.”

“Yeah.” Ron eyed him for another long minute, then pushed himself to his feet. “I have to admit, one of the reasons I come round to yours so often is so I can get a dose of Malfoy-grade attitude from your cat.” He hesitated, then added softly, “I miss him, too.”

Harry didn’t look up. He couldn’t meet Ron’s eyes. “I know.”

“Well, I’m off. I have to break the news to ‘Mione that I failed in my mission. That’ll require two pints, at least.”

“Say hi to Gin for me,” Harry said easily, his mood lightening as the conversation shifted to banalities and left his wounded heart alone.

“Neville’s going to be there, too.”

“Hmm?” Harry grunted, his eyes straying to his case file again.

“His last pub night as a single man.”

“Merlin’s balls!” Harry blurted out, “I completely forgot!”

“The stag party is this Friday. I got another owl from Seamus about it over the weekend.”

“He didn’t send me one.”

“He probably knew it wouldn’t do any good. You never answer your bleeding mail.”

Harry felt a creeping dread overtake him. Shooting Ron a half-desperate look from beneath his lashes, he asked, “Are you going?”

“Dunno. Robards has assigned me to the Cheapside case and we may be in the field that night. I’m on call all weekend. How ’bout you?”

He shuddered. “I’ll come up with some excuse for skiving off. Maybe I can get Robards to send me to Cheapside with you.”

“It’s just a party, mate. Half the people there will be friends from Hogwarts. And Nev will be hurt if neither of us make it.”

“I know, but honestly… A stag party organized by Seamus Finnegan? Could anything be worse?”

Ron laughed and slung his bag over his shoulder, preparing to leave. “Just don’t miss the wedding, or you’ll have much worse than a hurt Neville to deal with. You’ll have Hannah Abbott after your bollocks!”

Harry laughed with him. “Don’t worry. I value my bollocks far too much to risk that.”

“See you tomorrow, mate.”

“Cheers.”

As Ron strode out of the office, Harry turned back to his case file with a smile lingering on his face. Existing wasn’t bad at all, when you had friends like Ron. Now all he needed was an excuse for missing that fucking party.

 

*** *** ***

 

Draco strode into the room and flung himself into the chair before his dressing table. He had barely had time to glance at his face in the mirror—sweaty and flushed and thoroughly debauched—when a knock fell on his door, followed immediately by Nero’s head poking around it.

“Oh, for Fuck’s sake,” Draco snapped, “can you give me half a minute?”

He didn’t usually dare speak to Nero that way, but immediately after a show, his defenses were down and he sometimes forgot to guard his tongue. Singing always took it out of him, left him physically wrung out and emotionally fucked, even if it was only a tacky floor show for a bunch of horny wizards with too much booze in them. Draco never held back. That was his singular magic onstage. He lost himself in a song and took his audience along with him. It didn’t matter that his voice was only passable, at best, because no one really listened to his voice. They were too busy wondering what it would be like to have that inhumanly beautiful creature in their arms and on their cocks.

A fair number of them would find out before the night was over. All of them, if Nero had his way, and Draco wasn’t in a position to argue. He just wished the old bugger would give him a minute to catch his breath.

Not bloody likely.

“Time is money, pet,” Nero chided, giving him a warning look, “and you’ve got a busy night ahead of you.”

Draco knew better than to argue. It would get him nothing but bruises. Pushing himself to his feet again, he turned in time to see his first customer of the evening step through the door.

“Play nice, boys!” Nero tittered, as he withdrew and shut the door.

Draco let his lashes fall to screen his measuring gaze, as he strolled seductively across the room to meet his buyer. He wasn’t looking for signs of wealth or pedigree. That kind of thing didn’t matter a damn in here. Cock was cock. Gold was gold. And a man was entitled to get his money’s worth, regardless of his blood status. All Draco cared about was how to give it to him.

The man was licking his lips, breathing fast, his eyes raking Draco’s slender body as it moved. He snaked out a hand and grabbed Draco by one hip. His fingers bit and pulled him close. As their loins pressed together, Draco felt his cock coming up hard beneath his robes.

This one was eager. No need for subtlety.

Draco smiled and rolled his hips, rubbing himself against the other man. He wasn’t hard, but his customer didn’t seem to care. His fingers dug into Draco’s arse and his cock pulsed.

“We can play any way you want,” Draco purred. “Doesn’t have to be nice.”

“Good, ‘cause I didn’t pay all those Galleons for _nice_.”

Before Draco could respond, the man lunged to capture his mouth in a fierce, grinding kiss. Draco felt his soft lipstick smear and slide, turning the kiss from fierce to filthy in an instant. The man—he thought of them all as Achilles to his Patroclus, though he rarely spoke those names aloud—tightened his hold to lift Draco’s feet from the floor, and Draco obligingly wrapped his legs about his hips. The hard length of the cock pressed into Draco’s belly and the tongue thrusting into his mouth warned him that they were already done with the niceties. This one wanted only one thing—to fuck, hard and long and repeatedly.

“Where’s the bed?” the man growled.

“Use the chaise,” Draco whispered against his lips. “It’s closer.”

“I want to lay you out properly.” The man bit hard at his lower lip, sucking it, tasting blood with the lipstick, then pulled back to add, roughly, “Fuck you properly…”

“Trust me, there’s plenty of room.”

There was, in fact, plenty of room on the chaise. Draco had years of practice and plenty of stains on the cushions to prove it. And if he was going to spread his arse for every man who handed over his gold to Nero, he was going to do it on the chaise. Not in his bed. Not as long as he could avoid it.

Ridiculous, really, a whore who wouldn’t fuck in a bed. But the old horror lingered, like the smell of come on his skin. So he smiled and flirted and dragged them all down on those tufted velvet cushions, where he could fuck without wanting to vomit.

His current Achilles was too overheated to argue any longer. With a grunt of acceptance, he took a step to reach the chaise and lowered Draco onto it. Draco lay in a sprawl of slender limbs and a spill of silver-gilt hair, gazing up at his buyer as if he were the culmination of all his dreams.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“I’m going to fuck you to tears, you little cunt.”

“Please.” He slipped his hands down his torso, stroking the sweat-dampened bodystocking, and cupped them over the swell at his crotch. His cock was still soft, but his hands concealed it. “Please hurt me. Fuck me to tears.”

The man growled and tore at the neck of his costume. In a moment, his Achilles had him stripped and spread out on the chaise, his knees pushed up nearly to his shoulders. Draco had barely enough time to cast a wordless protection charm before the man was balls-deep in his arse, pumping for all he was worth, fucking his little cunt, just as he had promised. There was nothing left for Draco to do but shed a few tears and beg for more.

 

A firm rap on the door told Draco that the hour was up. His Achilles had him on his knees, mounting him from behind, and was still working up to his fourth orgasm. At the unwelcome sound, he growled a protest and thrust in harder.

Nero stepped through the door, smile plastered to his fat face and wand at the ready, concealed in a fold of his robe.

“Now, now, pet,” he cooed, eyes on Draco’s stoic face, “don’t wear the poor man out. Leave him something for next time.”

“We’re not done here,” Achilles snarled.

“I’m afraid you are.” There was no mistaking the steel behind the simper in Nero’s voice. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, but my sweet pet, here, has other customers waiting. He can’t afford to play favorites.”

With a wordless growl, the man pulled out of Draco and stepped back, giving him room to move at last. He unbent his knees, stretched his cramped limbs, then turned to sit on the red cushions. Achilles watched him hungrily, but by this time, he had spotted the wand in Nero’s hand and decided not to press his luck.

“Don’t worry, _pet_ , I’ll be back,” he said, giving Draco a wolfish grin.

Nero had him by the arm, propelling him out the door. “He’ll be ready and waiting, I promise. Just you go have a drink at the bar, on the house, to cool off. Then come back and visit us any time. That’s a good boy…”

Draco waited until the customer was gone, then he reached over to the dressing table and the drawer that held his wand. “Give me a minute to get cleaned up.”

“Never mind that, ducks. You’re beautiful just the way you are.”

Draco knew that he was anything but beautiful. His hair was a tangled mess, his face smeared with lipstick and black mascara tracks, his legs and belly slicked with come. He desperately needed a really thorough cleaning charm or a long bath. But Nero’s message was clear—this one didn’t want him clean.

He settled back onto the chaise, waiting.

Then Nero was gone and his new Achilles was striding into the room, spear at the ready.

 

*** *** ***

 

Harry lay sprawled on the couch, a book in his hand, a glass of wine floating just in reach, and a puddle of pale fur curled on his chest. Between the fire blazing on the hearth and the knitted afghan, courtesy of Mrs. Weasley, draped over his legs, he did not feel the November chill in the air. His cottage hailed back to the reign of Elizabeth the First, with half-timbered walls, diamond-paned windows that let in plenty of treacherous drafts, and stone-flagged floors that seemed to soak up the cold until they reached a temperature somewhere south of Absolute Zero. But Harry had magic to spare for keeping his ancient home comfortable.

When he wanted warmth, it was warm. When he wanted light, more light poured through the narrow, deep-set windows than could possibly get there on its own. And while the cottage _looked_ like a relic from another age, it _felt_ entirely solid, secure and up-to-date.

Tonight, Harry wanted homely comfort—a book and a cat and a glass of good wine—so that’s what he got.

He turned a page and reached for the floating glass. The cat stirred, lifting its head to fix him with a cynical gaze.

“What?” he demanded.

Abraxas looked away.

“You know, you’re every bit as snarky as Ron says.”

That earned him a dismissive yawn.

Harry laughed and went back to his book, while Abraxas settled his head onto his paws again. Quiet closed over the room as Wizard and cat returned to their preferred forms of relaxation. The only sound was the crackle of flames on the hearth and the rustle of pages.

A sudden flare of green made Harry lower his book and crane his neck to see past his own bent knees.

Hermione’s head appeared, floating in the green flames. “Harry?”

He sat up, forcing Abraxas to leap off his chest. The cat landed lightly on the floor and turned to offer him a disgusted look before stalking out of the room. He did not approve of floo calls and never lingered to listen to them.

“Hullo, Hermione,” Harry said, as he kicked off the afghan and swung his feet to the floor. He could see her clearly now and knew that she could see his whole room. He had purposely installed big fireplaces in the house so he didn’t have to crawl out from under low mantelpieces or crouch on the rug to hold a conversation—one of the perks of wealth, he supposed, and one he wasn’t embarrassed to own.

He yawned, scrubbed his hand through his hair, and waved his wineglass away when it bumped insistently against his shoulder. “What’s up?”

“Ron told me you didn’t join him at the pub, so I assumed you’d be home alone.”

“I’m always home alone,” he pointed out.

“Yes, well, I thought you might come through and join me for a cup of tea.”

“Seriously? Are you afraid I’m drinking myself into a coma?”

If it were possible to see it through green flames, Harry would have sworn her cheeks turned pink. “I’d like the company. Rose is fussing and keeping me up. Please, Harry? One cup of tea?”

He eyed her narrowly and demanded, “Just you and me, yeah?”

“And Rose.”

He sighed in defeat. There was no point in fighting it, since he was guaranteed to lose. He loved his friends. He really did. But they were relentless.

“All right, one cup of tea, but only because I miss Rose.”

 

A few minutes later, he stepped out of the floo in Ron and Hermione’s home, brushing soot from his robes. Their little cottage was much newer than Harry’s and more ramshackle, but Hermione did her best to hold the chaos of living with Ron and a new baby at bay. Rose was far less destructive than her father at this stage, since she was only a few months old and hadn’t started to crawl yet. Harry figured that once she did, Hermione would just give up and barricade herself in her study.

She met him at the hearth, a whimpering Rose propped against her shoulder and a harried look on her face that told Harry she had been telling at least some of the truth. She wasn’t getting any sleep. He kissed her cheek and followed her into the cramped, cluttered, candlelit kitchen.

“What’s wrong with Rosie?” he asked, as he automatically crossed to the sink to fill the kettle.

“Tooth,” Hermione said tersely.

“She should have about a hundred of those by now.”

“It certainly feels like it. Here.” She held out the fussing baby to Harry in exchange for the kettle. “Have a go at calming her down and let me do that.”

He accepted the baby, tucked her expertly into the crook of his arm, and smiled down into her wide, brown eyes. She seemed perfectly happy to have Uncle Harry’s attention and immediately fell quiet. Her chin was slick with drool, and when she smiled beatifically at him, he could see two slivers of tooth poking through her lower gum.

Harry laughed and tickled her damp cheek, earning him a series of cooing noises that made his eyes twinkle.

“That was easy.” Hermione looked relieved. “Sit down. I’ve got chocolate biscuits.”

“Of course you do. Ron does live here, doesn’t he?”

She laughed, and the weariness in her face eased. “Sometimes.”

“I’m sorry we’re not around to help more,” Harry said earnestly.

“He was an Auror before I married him, Harry. I knew what I was getting into.”

“Yeah, but it’s different with Rose here.” He took a chocolate biscuit from the plate she set in front of him, bit into it, then said around the mouthful, “Aren’t you anxious to get back to work?”

“You have no idea,” Hermione sighed, dropping into a chair across the little table from him. “I try to stay on top of things, but you know we were right in the middle of negotiations for the new House-elf Labor Agreement when Rose was born. I had to entrust them to Braithwaite, and he’s… well…”

“A clot,” Harry supplied.

“Exactly.”

They chatted on in this way, covering work and the Weasleys and Neville’s upcoming wedding, until Hermione set a cup of tea in front of Harry and bid him drink up. He took a sip, swallowed, and fixed his old friend with considering eyes.

“So…”

“So, what?” she retorted.

“Where are you hiding him?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Or is it a ‘her’ this time?”

Hermione flushed. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Since when?”

“Since… well, I wouldn’t. Though, if you were in the mood for an evening out, I did meet a lovely…”

“Hermione,” he growled, warning plain in his voice.

“I’m joking.” He glared at her, and she laughed in embarrassment. “Mostly joking. But I do worry about you, Harry. It’s not right that you just stop living. You deserve more.”

“Ron said pretty much the same thing to me earlier.”

“That’s because we _both_ worry about you.”

“Why this sudden concern for my love life?”

“It’s not sudden.”

“No.” Harry set down his cup and fixed a narrow look on his old friend. “But twice in one night? You’re ganging up on me, and I’d like to know why.”

Hermione sighed and threw him a faintly embarrassed look. “Ron told me about your request to join the Unmentionables.”

“I see.”

The Unmentionables were a special detachment of Aurors tasked with reintroducing war criminals into society after they were pardoned or released from prison. The current climate was so hostile to anyone even rumored to support the Dark Lord that people who had served their sentences had to be smuggled out of Azkaban, given false identities, sent into hiding or exile, protected by concealment and shield spells, and constantly monitored. These precautions were taken for their safety, but had the added benefit of guaranteeing that the Ministry knew what every one of them was up to at all times.

It was highly secretive work. No one outside the DMLE knew who they were and the rest of the Aurors didn’t know what they did. They weren’t even allowed to mention the group in the corridors of the Ministry—hence the nickname that always called up images of ladies’ underwear in Harry’s mind.

Harry had asked to join the Unmentionables and been refused. He’d received word yesterday. Ron, who had a number of unflattering opinions about his proposed career change, should have been happy to learn that his partner wasn’t moving on to another more prestigious, if less public, assignment. Perversely, he wasn’t. He was angry with Robards for denying Harry’s request and concerned that Harry would take it badly.

Apparently, he’d shared his doubts with Hermione.

Harry kept his expression bland as he replied, “Well, they turned me down, so there’s nothing to talk about.”

The concern in her face deepened. “You didn’t really think they’d accept, did you?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Well, you’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?”

“And what in bleeding Hell does that have to do with it?!” he snapped, his temper flaring.

“Everyone knows your face. And everything you do is front page news.”

“Is that my fault?”

“No, but it means that you’re the last person they’d put on a squad whose activities are so secret that no one’s even supposed to know they exist. Besides, they don’t trust your motives.”

“My… my _motives?!_ ” Harry spluttered, feeling his face heat. “What do you mean, _my motives?!_ ”

Hermione sighed, as if his hair-trigger temper were a physical burden to her. “Nothing. Forget I said it.”

“Fuck that!” he blurted out. Then, seeing the reproachful look on her face, he ordered himself to calm down and tried again. “Sorry. Just tell me what they think I really want.”

“Revenge. Ammunition to punish all those Death Eaters who have slipped through the cracks and convinced the Wizangamot to go easy on them. It makes a twisted kind of sense, from their perspective. What better place to be, if you want to collect evidence against them, than on the squad detailed with protecting them?”

“Bloody hell! Revenge is the _last_ thing I want!”

“I know that, obviously. So do a lot of others, like Kingsley. But the ones who don’t know you, who think you take your Savior title too seriously, can’t understand why you’d sign up to protect convicted war criminals unless you planned to use your position against them.”

“It wouldn’t occur to them that I’d like to _help_ people for a change, instead of _punishing_ them, I suppose! That I _supported_ Kingsley when he promised to clean up the Ministry, end corruption and bigotry, treat all Magical creatures as equals…”

When Hermione gave him a wry look, he bristled and demanded, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Bollocks. Tell me what that look was for.”

She squirmed a little in her chair, took a sip of tea to buy some time, then offered, hesitantly, “Would your earnest desire to shield reformed criminals from a vengeful public have anything to do with finding Malfoy?”

Harry flushed a burning red. “No.”

Hermione paused, then murmured provocatively, “Bollocks.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe I’d like to get a look at their records, just to be thorough, but I don’t really expect to find anything in them. The Ministry hasn’t found him, Hermione. We know that. And after all this time, I… I doubt they ever will.”

He stared down at his teacup, fiddling it round on the saucer with his free hand, while Hermione’s gaze dwelled sadly on him. She said nothing, leaving him alone with his thoughts, so it was Harry who finally broke the silence.

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s my fault.”

“That Malfoy disappeared?”

“That we couldn’t find him.”

“You’ve tried everything, Harry.”

“I didn’t give him back his wand.”

“What?”

At the sharpness of her tone, he lifted his head to fix her with tormented eyes. “I took his wand. I kept it. I should have given it back.”

“You needed it,” she pointed out reasonably. “Without it, you never would have defeated Voldemort and we’d all be dead or enslaved.”

“So we’re free and Draco is lost.”

She cocked her head curiously. “How do you think returning his wand would have prevented that?”

“The Ministry can trace wands. Isn’t that how they know when a Hogwarts student uses magic outside of school?”

“Not exactly…”

“And how they keep tabs on paroled prisoners, like those Death Eaters the Unmentionables are protecting?”

“They have to put the Trace spell on the wand, first, which means that they need it in their hands.”

Harry shook his head stubbornly. “I’d bet you anything there’s a way to track a wizard through his wand, if you know what it’s made of and who it belongs to. The magical signatures of the wizard and the wand together would be unique…”

“Harry.” She reached across the table to catch his wrist and still his fidgeting with the cup. His eyes lifted to meet hers. “It’s not your fault. You took the wand because you needed it. You couldn’t possibly have given it back, even if you wanted to. There was no chance.”

“There was. That night in the Room of Requirement… the night Crabbe died…”

“The night of the Battle?”

He nodded and swallowed convulsively. “Draco followed me into the Room to get his wand back.”

“He followed you in there to capture you and hand you over to his master,” Hermione said tartly.

“That was Crabbe and Goyle.”

“He threw a hex at you! We heard him!”

Harry shook his head, smiling wistfully. He closed his eyes and let the memory come, as sharp and clear as if it were happening right in front of him…

 

_“You have something of mine, Potter. I want it back,” Draco said, his voice cracking with strain._

_His face was thin—much too thin—with purple shadows in it and something haunted looking out of his eyes. His robes hung on him as if made for a different person. His hair spilled over his shoulders and down his back, the ends ragged, the grown-out layers falling messily around his face and clinging to the sweat on his throat._

_Harry stared at him as if he were seeing a ghost, unstrung by shock and a sudden, overwhelming longing. He couldn’t speak. Only stare and hurt._

_“My wand…”_

_“Just hex him and grab it already,” Crabbe said in his weird, childish voice. Pointing his wand at Harry, he began to form the curse. “Cruc—”_

_“No!” Draco grabbed his arm and pulled it roughly to the side, sending the curse crashing into the wall of junk rising to Harry’s right. “The Dark Lord wants him alive!”_

_Objects flew everywhere. The diadem, still tangled in the wig where Harry had set it so long ago, rose twisting and turning in the air, even as the wall began to topple._

_Harry cried out and reached helplessly for the Horcrux. Another curse burned the air. Draco screamed a protest that Harry only half heard._

_Then the wall was falling, coming down in a great, slithering avalanche, cutting off Draco’s words and forcing them all to duck for cover. Harry was dimly aware that more curses were flying, Ron and Hermione were shouting for him, Goyle was lying half under a pile of broken furniture with blood on his head and Draco was trying to drag him free. Then he heard a scream and saw Crabbe running full tilt from a seething wall of flame…_

 

“I was so close.” Harry whispered without opening his eyes. “For just a moment, I had him with me. I had him safe.”

“I’m so sorry, Harry.”

He savored it again for a moment—the feel of Draco behind him on the broom, clinging to his back, shaking and sobbing with relief. “I wanted to fly away with him… fly and fly and never look back…”

“You got him out alive, which is more than we could do for Crabbe.”

“And lost him again.” His eyes fluttered open to find Hermione gazing at him with so much love and sorrow in her face that it hurt nearly as much as his memories. “In the corridor, right before Fred was killed, that was… that was the last time I ever saw him. He just lay there like a heap of dirty laundry, not even looking at me. I tried to talk to him, to tell him we’d get him to the Great Hall where he’d be safe, but then everything went crazy and Percy was dueling and Fred was caught in the explosion and… and…”

“Oh, Harry.”

“That was the last time I ever saw him,” Harry repeated in a hollow whisper. “He disappeared and I went off to fight Voldemort with his wand.”

“Don’t you think that, wherever he is, Malfoy is glad you kept his wand? You freed him, too, after all.”

“Did I?” Harry blinked his eyes back into focus, back to the present, and turned them on his friend. “Then, where is he?”

The look on her face was all the answer he needed.

Neither of them spoke for a long minute. Then Hermione pushed herself to her feet and offered him a wistful smile. “How about a warm-up on that tea?”

Harry returned her smile with an effort. “Yeah, all right.”

Giving him one more fond look, she left him sitting there with a sleeping Rose and the ghost of his lover to fetch the teapot.

 

*** *** ***

 

The door stayed shut for a few blessed minutes, giving Draco time to dab some dittany on his bruises and throw back a shot of Firewhiskey. He hated the stuff, but it worked faster than wine or brandy and there was usually a bottle sitting around, unwatched, that he could nick and hide in his room. The burn of alcohol in his throat made his eyes water and brought them back into proper focus. Turning his bleared eyes on the mirror, he took stock of what he saw.

Three performance sets. Merlin knew how many customers. A quick one up against the corridor wall as he stepped off stage the last time that resulted in more bruises and another ruined costume. Nero hadn’t been kidding when he’d said Draco was in for a busy night, and the result was the debased wreck staring back at him out of the mirror.

His hand shook slightly as he lifted a tissue to wipe the mascara tracks off his cheeks. Pausing, he clenched his fist and willed his fingers to still. He didn’t have time for this, not with Nero’s knock due at any moment. He needed to pull himself together, patch up his face, and paste a smile on it for Achilles number six thousand and two.

Instead, he pulled open the little drawer to his left and fished out a packet made of waxed paper. A sweep of his hand cleared a spot on the table. He set down the packet and tore it open to reveal three irregular lumps of raw sugar soaked in a dull purple syrup.

 _Why purple?_ he wondered, as he pried one sticky lump free of the paper. He’d never bothered to ask, but it struck him afresh every time he saw them. _Who took the trouble to dye Syrup of Poppies purple, when it was naturally brown?_

He knew what it looked like in its natural state because he’d brewed it himself in Potions class, back in his seventh year at Hogwarts. Back when his NEWTs seemed to matter. Back when he still thought Voldemort’s death would save him.

The familiar knock came. Draco started, a jolt of adrenalin going through him at the thought of Nero catching him, then he popped the sugar lump in his mouth. He clamped his teeth shut on the damning evidence.

Nero stuck his head in the door and called sharply, “All right, ducks?”

Pausing for a couple of seconds before he answered, Draco nodded and turned to face him. The sugar was dissolving on his tongue in a rich puddle of molasses sweetness, overlaid with the bitterness of opium alkaloids. He swallowed and felt warmth spread through him.

“I’ve got one more for you, if you can handle it.”

The assumption that he _could_ handle it, that he _must_ handle it was clear. It’s not like he really had a choice. But that was fine, because he was starting to float and the pain was fading.

Rising to his feet, Draco smiled sweetly at Nero. He swallowed the last of the saliva pooling in his mouth and said, “Of course.”

Nero’s plump face swam out of his increasingly fuzzy view. Another face—harder, uglier, greedier—swam into it. Draco walked toward it, his naked body now light and fluid, barely anchored to the threadbare rug. Then strong arms closed around him, lifted him like he was made of air.

He didn’t protest when the man carried him to the alcove and laid him down on the bed. It didn’t seem to matter anymore where he got fucked. He opened his thighs without a murmur, took the man’s weight on his body and arched up to meet the cock that drove into him. He even hardened in response, a moan of real pleasure spilling from his lips.

Suddenly, it was easy to enjoy it. To play the willing trollop. To lose himself the way he did when he sang.

It was easy because he was already lost. His mind was already gone, drifting in a warm, glowing dream.

 

_He lay in a bed hung with red and gold curtains. He was naked, aroused, his body already sticky with the evidence of multiple orgasms but eager for more. Hands moved over his skin, while a mouth played with his… teasing… tasting… nipping at his lips until they swelled and burned. He whimpered softly and the mouth on his swallowed the sound hungrily._

_“Harry,” he breathed, when his lips were free for a moment._

_Green eyes gleamed at him from the shadows. “Dragon.”_

_“That sounds wrong,” he murmured. “You’re the real dragon. The one full of power and fire.”_

_“You’re an ice dragon,” Harry whispered. “So cold he cuts.”_

_“What happens when I melt?”_

_“You make the most wonderful sounds…”_

_“Oh, fuck… Harry…”_

_The other boy’s mouth was on his throat, his chest, his stomach, moving down and down._

_“Melt for me, my dragon.”_

_He melted in an instant, arching up into Harry’s mouth, keening and panting with need. Harry hummed his approval, swallowed him down, and brought him to a brutal climax that tore something very like a scream from his distended throat. When he had dragged the last shuddering spasm from his lover and licked him clean, Harry lifted his head and grinned._

_“That’s the sound I like best.”_

_“Fuck…” he gasped._

_Harry crawled up to lie beside him and pull him into his arms. “Catch your breath, then you can return the favor.”_

_He laughed breathlessly and burrowed into Harry’s chest._

_After a quiet moment, Harry spoke again. “How did it take us so long to get here, Dragon?”_

_“I don’t know… Something about you hating me on sight?”_

_“I never hated you,” Harry whispered._

_“You did. And I can’t say I was any too fond of you.”_

_“Oh, yes, you were. You wanted me desperately. That’s why you were such a prick.”_

_“Mm, sure. That’s why.”_

_“I know you wanted me, Dragon.” He grabbed a fistful of platinum hair to make his point and planted a fierce kiss on reddened, smiling lips. “I know you did!”_

_“How do you know?”_

_“Because_ I _wanted_ you _.”_

_“How could I possibly argue with that, since it makes no kind of sense?”_

_“You wanted me.” This time, it came out as a purring whisper, breathed against his lips in the instant before Harry claimed a kiss._

_“I wanted you,” he agreed almost soundlessly. “From the first instant I saw you I wanted you, so much that it made me crazy.”_

_“You’re still crazy. Absolutely barking.”_

_“I am. Kiss me, Harry.” Harry complied with a fervor that robbed him of breath. “Now, tell me again how you wanted me, too.”_

_That earned him a laugh and another kiss. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you…”_

 

He didn’t know if it was a dream or a memory, something that had really happened or a fantasy that his mind had constructed for his pleasure, and he didn’t care. He was safe in Harry’s arms. That’s all he wanted.

He was still there, wrapped in his dream-lover’s embrace, when the customer finished with him and pulled out. The man said something, slapped his bare thigh, tossed a silver Sickle on the bed beside him. Draco felt none of it. He merely pulled his legs up onto the bed and curled onto his side, burrowing his face into the rumpled blanket. By the time the man had fastened his flies and left, Draco’s eyes were closed, his breathing slow, his mind sinking deeper into the dream. With Harry.

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's a big time jump between the Prologue and this chapter, but please trust me when I say that you'll learn everything you need to know in time. Most of the questions you've asked in your comments will be answered, even if it doesn't look that way at the moment.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Funeral for an Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little Christmas present for those of you following my story. It's not a cheerful chapter, but I hope you enjoy the angst!
> 
> Merry Christmas!

****Harry did not like Gawain Robards. He had no real justification for his dislike, just a feeling in his gut that sent his hand twitching for his wand whenever he got close to the man. It didn’t make sense, but Harry was used to his instincts not making sense, so he just went with them and waited for the truth to come to light.

Robards was a decent Auror and a decent boss. He had willingly joined Kingsley in his efforts at reform, rooting out corruption, bigotry and brutality in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He had created the Unmentionables squad to protect the most reviled and despised members of Wizarding society when few people respected that decision. He had even accepted the influx of Young Wands—those members of Dumbledore’s Army who had joined the DMLE after the war to help Kingsley sort out the mess left by a string of weak, corrupt and Imperiused Ministers—without an audible murmur. Harry had never heard a single complaint from him that the newest Aurors were undisciplined, uncertified and more loyal to Harry than to the Head Auror or the Ministry. He had simply put them to work.

So why did the very sight of him make Harry long to hex him into next week? Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Robards had been appointed Head Auror by Scrimgeour and had held onto the position through Voldemort’s return to power—neither of which facts imbued Harry with trust.

Or maybe he was just a pillock and deserved hexing. Ron was usually right about these things.

Now, summoned to the Head Auror’s office, sitting across the desk from Robards, Harry felt his wand hand itch and had to order himself to behave. Hexing his boss under the desk was not the best way to start the day.

Still… pillock…

“Sorry to take you away from your work, Potter,” Robards said in his dour way, “but I needed a private word.”

“Sir,” Harry replied at his most bland and pleasant.

“I received some news today, and I thought you should hear it from me before it goes public.”

Harry frowned slightly at that. “If this is about a case, shouldn’t Ron…?”

“It isn’t. And I’d rather you not tell Weasley about it. Not until it hits the papers on Saturday.”

Harry felt his eyebrows skate up his forehead. “The papers?”

This was headed nowhere good.

“It’ll cause a stir, no question, but we need to keep it under wraps until after the funeral…”

“Wait. Funeral? Whose funeral?”

“Lucius Malfoy’s.”

Harry’s brain seemed to shut off, unable to process Robards’ words, and he just stared at the other man without blinking.

“He died sometime yesterday,” Robards said, almost gently, as if afraid to startle Harry into panic or fury.

_Fucking Lucius. Dead._

He felt an insane desire to laugh, followed almost immediately by an overwhelming bitterness and the urge to cry.

 _You weren’t supposed to die on your own, you fucking bastard,_ he thought. _You were supposed to suffer for a lifetime, then die in agony while I watched. While Draco watched. Draco…_

The bitterness and tears rose in his throat, nearly choking him.

_Draco. You hurt him and hurt him. You betrayed him in every possible way. And now you’re with him and I…_

Jerking himself roughly away from that thought—from even the possibility that Draco could be dead and reunited with Fucking Lucius, while Harry was left to suffer without him—he blinked his eyes into focus and fastened them on Robards’ frowning face.

“How did he die?”

“A wasting illness contracted in Azkaban.” Robards eyed him narrowly for a moment, trying and failing to read his emotions in his face, then went on, “The Minister personally requested that I tell you. He thought it would give you some kind of… _closure_ I think he called it. Though what Lucius Malfoy’s death has to do with you, I _don’t_ know.”

 _And you’re never going to fucking know_ , Harry thought.

When he said nothing, Robards harrumphed and shuffled at the papers on his desk. “The funeral is tomorrow. We don’t want word getting out until the deceased is safely in the ground, in case certain elements try to disrupt the proceedings…”

“At Azkaban?” Harry demanded. “Who’d want to disrupt a funeral _there?_ Who could even get on the island through the wards?”

Robards scowled and flicked his eyes away in a distinctly furtive manner. “The funeral won’t be on the island, because Malfoy didn’t die in the prison.”

“Wait. What do you mean, he didn’t die in prison? _Where else would he be?_ ”

“It was the decision of the Wizengamot to…”

“He was sentenced to _fifteen years!_ ” Harry bellowed, rage getting the better of discretion, power beginning to spark on his skin and lift the hair from his scalp. “It’s barely been _three!_ And you’re telling me _they let him go?!_ ”

“Not exactly. If you’ll kindly rein in your magic, Potter…”

Harry took a deep breath and shut his eyes. He still had anger issues—worse in many ways than during the war, when he always had some outlet for his power—but he had learned not to let his magic loose with his temper. Most of the time. It was no surprise to him that Fucking Lucius could still blast his self control to slag.

When the heat in his skin had cooled, he opened his eyes to look at Robards. “Sorry. I have a… a complicated history with…” He broke off, fighting with himself, then ground out, “ _That man_. I sat through his trial so I could watch the bastard being marched off in chains and I’ve counted the days since, reminding myself that he’s exactly where he belongs, suffering the way he deserves. Now you tell me he isn’t. Wasn’t.”

For the first time since he’d met him, Harry saw real approval in Robards’ expression. Was the man _happy_ that Harry hated someone the way he hated Fucking Lucius?

“Believe me, if I had anything to say about it, he’d still be rotting in a cell.”

“Why did they let him go?”

“He was dying.” Robards gave Harry a sardonic smile that invited him to join in the joke. “Apparently, Azkaban didn’t agree with his delicate pureblood sensibilities. He lasted about six months on the island before he fell ill, and by the time his wife completed her two-year sentence, the healers had declared him untreatable. The Wizengamot, in their infinite wisdom, decided that it was cheaper and easier to let his wife bury him. So they sent her into hiding on the Continent and put Lucius in her care. I think they called it House Arrest, but they didn’t bother with any restrictions on his movements. He spent the last year in bed, wasting away.”

“A year,” Harry said dully.

His brain was limping under the onslaught of new information, but his anger clung to this fact—Fucking Lucius had walked out of Azkaban a year ago and no one had bothered to tell him. Not even Kingsley. Was that why they’d refused his transfer to the Unmentionables? They didn’t want him to know that the one man in the world he hated more than Voldemort was free?

Robards shrugged. “It took him a long time to die.”

“I would’ve been happy to help him along,” Harry said through his teeth.

Robards cocked his head curiously. Harry’s outburst seemed to have unlocked something in him, reassured him that the Savior was really just a man with scars and hatreds like any other man.

“I’ve never seen you like this. What is Malfoy to you?”

Harry pulled his lips back in a grimace. “The most loathsome human being ever to walk the earth.”

One grizzled brow shot up Robards’ forehead. “This from the man who fought the Dark Lord, face to face?”

“Voldemort was insane. And he wasn’t quite human, by the end. Fucking Lucius didn’t have either excuse.”

“What did he do to you?”

Harry flinched and muttered, “It doesn’t matter, now. He’s dead and good riddance.” He stared down at his hands for a long moment, then asked, “Where is he being buried, if not at Azkaban?”

Robards looked suddenly shifty, his brief warmth disappearing under his usual frosty exterior. “On the Continent. Neither Lucius nor Narcissa is welcome in Britain these days, so she’s found an old Malfoy family burial site in their home country.”

“You won’t tell me where.”

“Why do you want to know?”

Harry shrugged, trying to ignore the sharpness of the other wizard’s gaze. “Closure.”

“He’s dead, Potter, and by this time he’s ashes. Take it as a gift—one less arse-wipe with a grudge against you in the world—and move on.”

“Tomorrow, you said.” Robards shot him another pointed look, and he added, “’Til I can tell anyone that he’s dead.”

“Tomorrow mid-afternoon. The official Ministry statement will go out at the end of the day, so it’ll be in the _Prophet_ on Saturday.”

“And Narcissa Malfoy is still under Ministry protection?”

“You know I can’t answer that.”

Harry smirked. “You just did.”

Robards pushed himself to his feet, signaling that the conversation was over and prompting Harry to stand as well. “Stay out of it, Potter. I’ll have someone at the funeral to ensure there’s no trouble, but otherwise, the Ministry is not involved. No Auror presence. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Robards nodded. “Back to work, then.”

 

By the time he reached his own office, Harry was seething with barely-repressed excitement. He burst through the door, startling Ron who was working at their shared desk, and began to pace around the tiny space. His magic flared, throwing off angry sparks. Some landed on the desk and Ron ground them out with his thumb while his eyes tracked Harry around the room.

“All right, then, mate?” Ron ventured.

Harry took another turn about the room without answering.

“You went to see Robards?”

Apparently, Ron had been reading his inter-office mail, but that didn’t matter now.

“What’s the name of that bloke in Records?” Harry asked, coming to a stop in front of the desk. “The one with the squint that Hermione wants me to shag?”

“Hey, I never said she…”

Harry waved him to silence, “Right. Fine. She doesn’t want me to shag him. But what’s his name?”

“Fucked if I know,” Ron replied easily. He tilted his chair back on two legs and fixed Harry with curious eyes. “Why?”

“I need to charm some old records out of him, and it’d work better if I knew his name.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re Harry Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes in disgust and started pacing again, too full of seething energy to hold still.

He had a plan. A wonderful plan. A reckless, insubordinate, potentially disastrous plan that required him to break several departmental rules and defy a direct order from his boss—but still a wonderful plan. He was going to show up at Fucking Lucius’ funeral, confront Narcissa Malfoy, and pry Draco’s location out of her. At wandpoint, if necessary. And if the universe actually loved him as much as his adoring public believed, then he wouldn’t have to use force because Draco would _be there_ , and Harry would see him. Touch him. Kiss him. Hold him.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he breathed, unable to hold it in any longer.

“What’s got your wand in a knot, Harry? What d’you need from Records that you can’t get with a simple _3NJ5-B Requisition for Archived Information_ form?”

“Old files on the Malfoy family.”

Ron’s chair legs hit the floor with a crack. He was suddenly tense and frowning. “What did you say?”

Harry stopped moving again. He could feel his magic sparking, but it was not anger that drove it this time. It was hope.

“The Malfoys came over with William the Conqueror, yeah? Isn’t that what Draco told us?”

“Yeah.”

“So they must’ve come from France. The Normans were French.”

“Filthy imperialist pureblood bastards should’ve stayed on their own side of the Channel.”

“Okay, but you’re missing the point.”

“Am not. They conquered our country, mate! And I’ll bet they were all like Malfoy—ferret-faced Norman gits.”

“Ron!” Harry said in exasperation.

“If that’s not the point then what is?”

“The Malfoys came from France, so anything really old that’s connected to the Malfoy family will be _in_ _France_.”

“Yeah, so? Are you thinking that Ferret is hiding in France on some old Malfoy property? I thought we already searched them all.”

“We did. No, I’m not looking for a house. I’m looking for a burial site.” Ron stared at him, too gobsmacked to respond. “A church or a crypt or a graveyard so old that it no longer belongs directly to the Malfoys, if it ever did. I want to know where the Malfoys buried their filthy imperialist pureblood bodies before they ever thought of invading England!”

Ron pulled his mouth shut and swallowed noisily. “You’re, umm… you’re not…”

“What? Going grave-robbing? No.”

He swallowed again. “Looking for Ferret.”

“ _No._ Not the way you mean. But if this works, I may still find him.”

“If _what_ works?”

“If I make it to Fucking Lucius’ funeral.”

“ _Merlin’s Flaming Tits!_ ”

“He died yesterday.”

“Is that why Robards wanted to see you? To tell you about Malfoy getting what’s coming to him?”

“Yes. And I’m not supposed to be telling you. They’re keeping it secret until after the funeral tomorrow.”

“Fuck that.” Ron swept a pile of parchment to one side and sat forward, his hands clasped on the desktop and an expectant look on his face. “Gimme the details.”

So Harry gave him the details. Ron was duly furious that Lucius had been released and smugly satisfied at the thought of him wasting away in exile. He entered into Harry’s abuse of Robards, the Wizengamot, and even Kingsley Shacklebolt with the enthusiasm of a true friend. And when Harry had finished his account, he stated flatly,

“That’s why they turned you down for the Unmentionables. I’d bet my best broom on it.”

“You don’t have a best broom,” Harry pointed out. “All your brooms are shite.”

“Still.” He scowled. “I knew there had to be something behind it. Nobody just turns down Harry Bloody Potter!”

“It really doesn’t matter, Ron. I can talk to Robards and Kingsley about the Unmentionables later, but right now, I need to get to a funeral!”

“Yeah.” Ron shook himself, throwing off his outrage and the distraction of Kingsley’s seeming betrayal to focus on the needs of the moment. “Right. Lucius Sodding Malfoy’s funeral. Somewhere in France.” He turned rueful eyes on his friend. “France is a big place, mate.”

“That’s where our friend in Records comes in. The Ministry must have files on the Malfoy family dating back to before 1066. All we need to do is get our hands on them. Then read them all and find the family burial sites. And narrow it down to the right one. By tomorrow afternoon.”

“No worries. Who needs sleep?” Harry laughed and Ron grinned in answer. “You get down to Records and I’ll put the kettle on.”

Harry nodded and started for the door. He was nearly through it when Ron called, “Quentin! That’s his name!”

Harry paused, his hand on the jamb, to look back. “Quentin?”

“Or Rodney. That sounds right…”

With a roll of his eyes, Harry said, “Never mind. I’ll just have to rely on my celebrity and winning smile.”

“Eugene? Whatever. Just don’t tell Hermione what you’re doing or she’ll get the wrong idea.”

Harry laughed and flipped him a wave. Then he set off down the hallway to find and charm the Records clerk with the permanent squint and poncy name.

 

 

*** *** ***

 

Harry stood just outside the churchyard gate, his shoulders hunched and his collar turned up against the sullen rain. This was a Muggle village, for all the old magic hanging so palpably in the air, and he didn’t think it wise to openly cast a water-repelling charm. But, more to the point, he didn’t want to. Something about the cold drops sliding through his hair and into his collar seemed appropriate to his mood.

The day waned. Grey clouds settled on the mountain peaks surrounding the little village, heavy with more rain and the promise of a cold night. Nothing stirred in the tiny church behind its stone wall and orderly graveyard. Harry shuffled his feet and burrowed a little deeper into his heavy coat. Then the doors opened.

A handful of people stepped out of the arched doorway, a priest leading the way. Narcissa Malfoy came just behind him. She wore black robes that could easily be mistaken for an old-fashioned gown, with heavy falls of black lace at her wrists, her throat, and spilling from her hat brim to form a veil. With her bright hair shrouded in mourning black, Harry only recognized her by her posture and her place of honor in the procession.

The woman behind her he recognized much more easily. Andromeda Tonks carried herself like the proud Black that she was, with her head up and bared to the elements, her face appropriately somber but betraying no signs of real grief. Her resemblance to Bellatrix was still unsettling, but Harry knew her better now and didn’t make the mistake of confusing her with her lunatic sister. She carried little Teddy in her arms. His hair was a sober brown today, his face unchanging, his usual colorful enthusiasm dimmed by his gloomy surroundings.

Last came the Unmentionable sent by Robards to observe the ceremony, report on who attended, and make sure the widow of the infamous Lucius Malfoy was not harassed on this solemn day. He frowned when he saw Harry, then nodded a greeting.

Narcissa approached the gate and halted just inside it. The air temperature seemed to drop by several degrees.

“Mr. Potter.”

“Mrs. Malfoy.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Is this Ministry business?”

“No. I just want to talk.”

She regarded him steadily, eyes unreadable behind her black lace veil. Then she turned to Andromeda. “Would you care to join me for tea, Sister? To warm you for your trip?”

Andromeda looked from Harry to Teddy, nestled in her arms and looking so dejected in this depressing, grey, rain-washed place. Her white hand came up to cradle his rumpled head. “Thank you, but I need to get Teddy home. Harry, I presume I can trust you to treat my sister with due respect? Especially on the day she buries her husband?”

“You can,” Harry responded tightly. He didn’t bother to point out that references to Lucius Fucking Malfoy were not the way to ensure his good behavior. It didn’t honestly matter what Andromeda said. He wasn’t going to attack Narcissa; he was going to ask her a question. Then he was going to leave her to her mourning and her memories, and good riddance.

The two sisters kissed in a frigid, restrained way, and Andromeda followed the priest around to the back of the little church, presumably to a safe apparition point. Narcissa put her hand on the gate, ready to move through it, but the Auror caught her arm to halt her.

“You don’t have to speak to Potter, if you don’t want to, Mrs. Malfoy. I can remove him.”

Narcissa gave him a disdainful look. “That won’t be necessary. Entirely aside from the fact that you would almost certainly fail in the attempt to remove Harry Potter against his will, I have no objection to speaking with him. You may go, Auror Purefoy. Unless, of course, the Ministry has further need of me?”

Purefoy shook his head and stepped back. “Good day, Mrs. Malfoy.” Dark eyes shot over to Harry, glaring suspiciously, and Harry knew that his visit to Narcissa would be reported to Robards within the hour. “Potter.”

“Purefoy.”

“Now, Mr. Potter,” Narcissa said coolly, “shall we talk over tea?”

 

Tea, as Harry had suspected it would be, was an elaborate affair. Perhaps Narcissa had counted on her sister’s company and prepared enough food for the two women and a hungry toddler. Perhaps she had looked for more members of the Malfoys’ old circle to attend the interment and planned to feed them. Or perhaps she simply wanted to prove to Harry that she was neither impoverished nor lacking in manners. Whatever the reason, she provided an impressive array of tea, sandwiches, cakes and sweets, and the ceremony of serving it all took up far more than the five minutes that Harry had allotted himself for this meeting.

Finally, he sat in a spindly, Rococo-style chair with plate full of dainties balanced on his knee, gazing across the tea table at Narcissa while she poured milk into his cup and filled it to the precisely proper level with mahogany tea.

“Sugar?” she asked, mildly.

“Three lumps,” Harry responded, wondering as he did so how he’d ended up in this ludicrous position.

She dropped in the sugar without comment, gave the liquid a perfunctory stir, then handed the cup and saucer to Harry. As she busied herself with her own cup, Harry shook off his bemusement and spoke.

“I was surprised to see Andromeda at the church.”

Narcissa answered with no apparent constraint. “I asked her to come. She is a Black, Mr. Potter, and Blacks care for their own.”

“Except when they’re disowning them,” Harry retorted sourly.

“The war has changed us all.”

There was no arguing with that, so Harry took a sip of his tea and bit into a sandwich. Narcissa ate in small, delicate bites, her gaze on her plate, and waited for Harry to dredge up another topic of conversation. He had intended to barge in here, ask his question and leave, but the elegant parlor and gracious tea service made him feel crass for even thinking that way. He had stumbled into another world of high-born ladies, bone china, cucumber and liver pâté sandwiches, where bumbling men with blunt demands had no place.

Draco would belong here—more than belong, he would _adorn_ it. But he had fallen off the face of the earth and left Harry to stumble helplessly through his rarified world, looking but never finding, and hurting… always hurting…

“Have you been here since the end of the war?” Harry asked, glancing around the parlor and thinking of the charming Country French cottage that contained it.

“Since our release from Azkaban, yes.”

“I thought all the Malfoy properties were confiscated.”

“This was not part of the Malfoy estate.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “Are you looking for an excuse to strip me of my home, Mr. Potter?”

Harry flushed. “I was just curious.”

“The Ministry took the entire Malfoy estate, down to the last Knut in our vaults, and sold off the property to pay War Reparations. Most of the Black estate went, as well, except for what Sirius left to you and what Andromeda was able to salvage. This cottage belonged to a distant relation on the Black side, so far removed from the pure bloodline that even the Ministry of Magic could not claim the connection tainted by our part in the war. The cousin several times removed who owns it offered it as a refuge, when I left Azkaban with a deathly ill husband and no roof to shelter us.”

She looked squarely at Harry, letting him see the pain and pride in her eyes, though her face was otherwise inscrutable. “The Black family cares for its own.”

Harry just nodded and took another drink of tea.

“Why are you here, Mr. Potter?”

The frontal assault. He appreciated that, it being his chosen mode of attack, so he answered as bluntly as she’d asked, “To find Draco.”

She set down her cup and folded her hands tightly in her lap, but not before Harry caught the tremor in them. “You came to the wrong place.”

Harry set down his cup, as well, and met her stare for stare. “I hoped to see him at the funeral.”

“I knew he would not come.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“I have not spoken to my son in more than three years. The last time I saw him was when he ran back into the battle at Hogwarts, with no wand and no friend to fight at his side.” She eyed Harry steadily, her face giving nothing away. “I lost him that day, whether to death or prison I do not know, but he is gone.”

Harry cocked his head, brow furrowed. “You really have no idea where he is?”

“How could I? Lucius and I were arrested, brought out for the trial, then sent straight back to Azkaban. We received no visitors, read no papers, heard no rumors. I assumed that Draco was also in Azkaban, if he was alive, but I admit that I wondered when there were no whispers through the prison about the Malfoy heir… They tended to talk about the young and pretty ones.”

Harry controlled his shudder at those words, reminding himself that Draco was not one of those ‘young and pretty ones’. He’d been spared that, at least.

The marble perfection of Narcissa’s face began to crack, as emotion overwhelmed her. She twisted her fingers together, pulling until they went bloodless, and took an unsteady breath. “You’re telling me that you— _you_ , Harry Potter—have no idea where my son is? How is that possible?”

“I’m not omniscient, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“You’re an Auror. Surely the Ministry…”

“The Ministry believes he’s dead.”

The genuine pain in Narcissa’s face almost made Harry feel sorry for her. Almost. Then he remembered Draco’s years of torment at his father’s hands, with his mother sitting by—oblivious or uncaring, it didn’t really matter, both were unforgivable—and his pity died.

“But you don’t believe it?” she murmured through stiff, pale lips.

“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be here. I’m no happier to see you than you are to see me, Mrs. Malfoy, and only the chance to find Draco again could force me into sitting down to tea with you.”

Her pale brows knit very slightly. “Why do you want to find him?”

“Because I love him, of course,” Harry said, before his brain caught up with his mouth.

Narcissa gaped at him. Harry had just enough time to register the oddness of this lapse before she remembered herself and brought her teeth together with a snap, but he had definitely seen it—Narcissa Malfoy with her mouth hanging open in shock. “You… I beg your pardon?”

“I love Draco. I have for years. If it hadn’t been for that Unbreakable Vow, I’d have taken him with me when I went on the run after Dumbledore died. The last thing I wanted to do was to leave him with you lot, but Voldemort would’ve used the Vow to kill him. And he was worried about you, of course.”

She still looked dazed and confused. “I don’t quite understand.”

“It’s not difficult,” Harry said, with a hint of impatience. “We were lovers for nearly two years—only at Hogwarts, of course, and we had to keep it secret. After Dumbledore’s death, Draco left school with Snape, and I didn’t see him again until we were all caught up in the war.”

“At the Manor,” Narcissa breathed.

“Yes. He tried to throw Bellatrix off the scent to protect me, but he couldn’t lie outright with the Vow still binding him. You knew about the Vow, didn’t you?” he asked, abruptly changing tacks.

“After.” She swallowed, struggling for composure. “After the Dark Lord’s death. Lucius told me.”

“After it was too late to help, of course. How Lucius of him!”

“You don’t know the pressures he faced, Mr. Potter.”

“I know that he was a fucking coward,” Harry shot back, “who prostituted his own son for political gain, then let Voldemort do even worse!”

What little color there was in Narcissa’s cheeks drained away, leaving her dead white and shaking. “He did _what?_ ”

Harry broke off to stare at her in disbelief. “You didn’t know? How could you not know?”

“How could you think I would… if I’d known…” Giving herself a shake, she lifted her head arrogantly and said, “I don’t believe you. This is some foul Auror’s trick to punish the widow of a despised Death Eater.”

“Right, because I live to punish widows and orphans,” Harry said nastily. Lurching to his feet, he shoved his chair back to give himself a clear path to the door and freedom from the stifling atmosphere of Narcissa’s parlor. “Go ahead and deny it. I don’t honestly give a damn. I only came here for Draco, and if you can’t tell me where to find him then I’m done. Goodbye, Mrs. Malfoy, and have a nice life.”

“Wait!” She put out a hand but didn’t quite touch him.

Harry halted his move to go, turned to glare down at her, making no effort to hide the contempt in his face.

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“The truth that Lucius forced Draco to have sex with his political allies, fellow Death Eaters and the fathers of his childhood friends? Yes. Yes, I am. Any other questions?”

Narcissa swallowed audibly and gestured toward his chair. “Will you sit down? Please?”

Harry regarded her steadily for a long minute, then folded himself back into the chair.

“How do you know this?”

“Draco told me.”

“And you… believed him?”

Harry’s brows flew up under his unruly fringe. “You don’t?”

“I didn’t hear it from him, so I have no way to judge. I only know that you hate my late husband—so much that you would believe almost any evil spoken of him—and that Draco might have used that hatred for some purpose known only to him.”

Harry just sat, looking at her, for so long that even her magnificent composure cracked. She began to shift in her chair, shot glances at him from beneath her lashes, then finally blushed and turned away. Only then did Harry relent and break the silence.

“Do you remember the Christmas holidays during our sixth year at Hogwarts? It would’ve been nearly four years ago.” She nodded. “Draco spent the entire break in his room. He barely came out for meals.”

“He was ill…”

“He was frightened of what his father would make him do. Then, on Christmas Eve, you had a big party.”

“Yes, Draco was there, doing his duty, mingling with our guests.”

Harry nodded. “Until midnight, when he left.”

The blood had drained from her cheeks again. “That was when the Dark Lord bound him with the Vow. Lucius told me.”

“Yeah, well, did he tell you that after he’d finished with the Vow, he gave Draco to Fenrir Greyback to remind him of his _place?_ ”

Her eyes widened and her lips blanched white to match her hollow cheeks. “He did not.”

“I saw the scars, Mrs. Malfoy. All over his back, where Greyback’s nails tore the skin while he was raping him. And a big one on his arm, where the Dark Mark would be, if Voldemort had deemed a teenaged male prostitute _worthy_ of his Mark! Greyback made that one because he wanted a _taste_ of Draco but wasn’t allowed to bite him.”

“ _Salazar,_ ” Narcissa breathed, her skin now taking on a greenish cast.

“I’m not telling you this to be cruel. I’m telling you so you don’t fool yourself that Draco tried to manipulate me with lies. I saw the scars. I held him at night, when he was too traumatized to sleep and too frightened to be alone. I watched Voldemort torture him with the Cruciatus Curse in a bathroom at Hogwarts. I stood there and listened to him scream, and there wasn't a fucking thing I could do, because the curse was coming through that Vow and Voldemort was _in your house!_ ”

“How… how was I to know?”

“You might have opened your eyes and _looked._ Snape tried to tell you, that day you came to Hogwarts after Draco was attacked. He practically spelled it out for you. But you were too busy worrying about Fucking Lucius and the pressure he was under.”

“I was worried about having the Dark Lord in my house,” Narcissa snapped, with a flare of temper that drove out her shock. “You choose to sneer at me for that, but for all the horrors you’ve endured, Potter, you haven’t had to face that!”

“No, but Draco did. That last year, when I was on the run and Voldemort controlled everything, Draco had to live in the same house with him and his flunkies. How often did he come out of his room, then, Mrs. Malfoy? Did he look well? Did he sit at the dinner table making gracious conversation with you and his father and the ruler of the fucking world? Or was he hiding in his room, terrified to be seen, fucked into submission by the string of men Lucius and Voldemort sold him to?”

Narcissa flinched. “He… avoided our guests.”

“I’m sure he did. Until Fucking Lucius brought them to him. He told me once that he could no longer sleep in his own bed because one of the men tied him to it, fucked him ’til he passed out, then left him there for the house-elves to find. Did your house-elves tell you that?”

“Why are _you_ telling me, Mr. Potter? Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m sick of your excuses and denial. Because I’m disgusted by your Lady of the Manor pose, your fancy fucking tea set, the way you try to make this about me persecuting the poor widow or Draco lying to get back at his father. _I’m sick of it!_ You may not have known exactly what Lucius was doing, but you must have known that Draco was suffering. You _must have known!_ You’re his mother, for Fuck’s sake! He loved you! So much that he refused to fight back, refused to run and abandon you to Voldemort! He sacrificed his body for you, his health, his sanity, and you want me to believe that you didn’t even _see it?!_ ”

“I saw it.” Her lips were stiff and white, her voice no more than a puff of air. “I just didn’t understand it.”

“And you didn’t think to ask him what was going on?”

“Could I have stopped it? Saved him?”

“You could have helped him survive it.”

She stared at him, unblinking, for a full minute. Harry couldn’t be entirely sure, impenetrable as she was, but he thought she might be actually considering what he’d said. Finally, when his own eyes ached from looking into her unwavering ones, she nodded and said, “As you did.”

“I tried. I couldn’t be with him all the time, and he wouldn’t let me go after his father. The only thing left for me to do was to kill Voldemort before he killed Draco.”

“Is that why you did it? Killed the Dark Lord?”

“Not entirely. I mean, obviously, there were other reasons. Big reasons. But for me, personally, when I felt like I was fighting the whole world and trying to do the impossible, I kept going for him. I…”

He had a sudden, agonizing vision of himself lying on the top bunk in his tent that smelled of cats, Ron snoring below him, staring up at the canvas and thinking of Draco. Dreaming of him. Aching for him. Fighting the urge to leap down from the bed, run from the tent, apparate straight to Malfoy Manor and beat down the doors to reach him. He’d not done it, of course. He’d stayed in his bunk, shut his eyes, wrapped his arms around himself and tried not to weep at the picture that formed behind his eyelids—Draco in the Prefect’s bathroom, sitting astride his lap, coming undone on his cock, his face so soft and beautiful in that moment that it tore Harry’s heart in two.

He couldn’t tell Narcissa Malfoy about those months of loneliness and struggle and despair. He couldn’t tell her about the image he held in his head of Draco at the moment of ecstasy, the image that simultaneously tormented him and drove him on. He couldn’t explain to anyone, least of all her, how the only thing that gave him real joy in his life was also the source of his greatest pain, and how, now that Draco was gone, the pain was all he had left.

“I had to kill Voldemort,” he finally said, shoving away the more intimate revelations, “I always knew that. I kept fighting, kept trying, because I had no choice. But yes, I did it for Draco, so he would be free of the Vow and free to love me without lying about it.”

“He never told me about his feelings for you.”

Harry’s face tightened. “He wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t have… wouldn’t have thought less of him for it.”

“That’s easy to say now, when Voldemort and Lucius are dead and Draco’s gone.”

Her eyes were bright with tears when she asked, “You really don’t believe that he’s dead, as well?”

“If he is, no one knows about it. The Ministry keeps the location of released prisoners like you and your husband a secret, but they publicize the deaths.”

“Draco was never a prisoner.”

“No, but he’s wanted for his part in Voldemort’s crimes and everyone in our world knows it. If the Ministry could prove that he’s dead, they’d make it public, claim it as a victory.”

“Then it is no wonder he disappeared.”

“I tried to tell Kingsley that, to convince him to clear Draco’s name, but…”

“The Minister for Magic? Why would he help my son?”

“Because he knows the truth. He, Dumbledore, Snape and I were the only ones who knew what Lucius and Voldemort were doing to Draco. Dumbledore and Snape are dead, so that leaves only me and Kingsley. I thought if I could get his name publicly cleared, Draco might feel safe enough to come out of hiding.”

“But the Minister wouldn’t do it. Not for the son of Lucius Malfoy.”

“Not for a dead man, was his excuse.”

She bowed her head, and if it had been anyone other than Narcissa Malfoy sitting across from him, Harry would have sworn she was crying.

“I truly don’t believe he’s dead, Mrs. Malfoy.” Harry swallowed the sudden tightness in his throat, simultaneously wondering why he was trying to console this woman who so little deserved his compassion. “I believe he’s hiding somewhere, trying to survive like the the rest of us.”

“I devoutly hope you’re right.”

“I’ll find him. And when I do, I’ll let you know.”

She lifted her head to study him with dry eyes, then quirked a smile. “A word to tell me he’s alive, no more?”

“That’s up to Draco.” Harry stood up, and this time, Narcissa made no move to stop him. “Good bye, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Good bye, Mr. Potter.”

She didn’t rise to show him out and Harry was glad of it. He didn’t want her close to him any longer than necessary. Drawing his coat closed against the cold rain, he stepped out the door and glanced around him. The lane was deserted, the shutters of the nearest houses closed against the encroaching night. Harry shot one wary glance around him, then stepped into the darkness and away.

 

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no Draco in this one, but he plays a much bigger part in the next.


	4. Lady Stardust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from the David Bowie song of the same name. It’s a wonderful, dark, atmospheric song about an androgynous singer, and it was the inspiration for this entire story. There’s a sample of the lyrics at the beginning of the chapter. 
> 
> The portrait of Draco is just a little present for my readers. It was done entirely on my iPad, with an electronic pencil, but is made to look like a mixed-media drawing. I’m still learning how to work with electronic art tools, instead of canvas and paint, and this is my most ambitious project yet. I hope you like it!

 

_The Ghost in the Mirror_

* * *

 

 _People stared at the makeup on his face,_  
_Laughed at his long black hair, his animal grace._  
_The boy in the bright blue jeans jumped up on the stage,  
_ _Lady Stardust sang his songs of darkness and disgrace._

“Lady Stardust”, David Bowie, 1972

* * *

 

It was mid-afternoon and the short Winter day was already waning when Draco finally opened his eyes. He lay on the chaise, covered in a stained sheet that had seen better days, his hair and body still fouled with last night’s work and his muscles stiff with cold. The light filtering through the single window was as grey and sullen as his mood.   
****

He lay there for a long time, staring at that window and wondering what day it was. Thursday? Friday? Did it matter, since he couldn’t remember the month or year either? He had a vague notion that it wasn’t quite Christmas yet, because the shops in Knockturn Alley hadn’t put out their decorations—not that the denizens of the Alley went in much for Christmas cheer, or that he ever saw more than the telltale glow of colored lights from his little window—but that’s as close as he could get. Not-quite-Christmastime in some grey Winter after the war that was supposed to fix everything and hadn’t.

Close enough.

With a groan and a curse, he kicked off the clinging fabric, rolled to his feet, and staggered over to the dressing table. He found a Firewhiskey bottle among the scattered tubes of makeup with a quarter inch of amber liquid in the bottom that he downed in one swallow. Then he shoved a hand through his hair to push it back off his face. The starveling ghost staring back at him out of the mirror quirked a sour half-smile and rolled its eyes.

Another fucking day at the office.

He desperately needed a shower. If he had to live in his filthy skin for another minute, he’d peel it off with his own fingernails. Pulling on his dressing gown, he paused only long enough to Vanish the empty whiskey bottle and crumpled waxed paper wrapping from his depleted stash—never leave evidence of your crimes, his father had taught him—then he headed out the door in search of soap and hot water.

 

It was nearly an hour later when he returned, having indulged in an extra-long soak and detoured by the kitchen for a cup of tea. Clean, dry and mellowed by caffeine, he stepped through the door to find Nero there before him. At the sight of the big man sitting on his chaise, he halted and clutched his robe more tightly about his thin frame.

 _What did he find?_ was his first thought. _What did I forget?_

Then Nero smiled and said, “There’s my beauty.”

His mild tone eased the knot of anxiety in Draco’s guts. And when Nero held out a pudgy hand toward him, he stepped willingly into its clasp.

“Come give us a kiss, then.”

Draco didn’t balk. He let the other man guide him down to a seat on his wide lap and bent to bring their mouths together.

Nero’s lips were soft and clinging and wet, his tongue blunt and forceful. As he claimed Draco’s mouth, he slipped a hand into his robe to stroke his thigh. Draco looped his arms around Nero’s neck and leaned into the kiss, unconsciously spreading his legs to make room for his wandering hand. By the time Nero ended the kiss, Draco could feel the man’s erection poking into his hip, and his own cock was stirring.

He smiled down at Nero and squirmed playfully, rubbing himself against the obvious hardness jutting up through all that flab and fabric. Nero chuckled ’til his great pudding of a body shook with it and nipped at Draco’s lips before giving his bare thigh a stinging slap.

“Naughty little puss. Don’t tease old Nero that way.”

In answer, Draco snuggled closer to Nero, leaned all his weight against his wide chest, and nuzzled at his ear to whisper, “Don’t you want me?”

“I always want you, pet.” Nero’s hand found his half-hard cock and gave it a squeeze. “But _tempus fugit,_ as they say.”

Draco immediately straightened up to fix wide, alert eyes on Nero’s face. He knew better than to push, just as he knew better than to deny the other man’s caresses. Whatever Nero wanted, Nero took, including Draco’s undivided attention.

“This has been a hard week,” Nero said, one hand stroking Draco’s thigh, soothing where it had stung a moment before. “You’ve done well, my beauty. Very well. I may have a little something special for you, come pay day.”

Knowing exactly what was expected of him, Draco smiled seductively and feathered a kiss to Nero’s lips. He nudged his hip against the cock that still prodded it and purred, “You could give me something special, right here.”

“Now, now,” Nero chided, “behave yourself. You’re all good, then? Not too tired? Ready for a big weekend?”

“I’m ready.”

“Is there anything you need?”

Draco thought for a moment, hearing the real offer, the genuine concern—for his potential profit, if for nothing else—in his words. “More dittany,” he finally answered. “I’ve only got a few drops left.”

Nero nodded. “I’ll send Jewel with a fresh bottle. You may need it tonight. We have a big party coming in, a stag party.” He hesitated, then added with a glance cut up at Draco from beneath his lashes, “Ministry people, from the sound of it. Aurors.”

Draco froze. His breath caught.

 _Aurors? Here? What the fuck could Aurors want_ here?!

Nero was watching him narrowly but said nothing. The cunning, old queen didn’t know Draco’s real name, but he certainly knew that he was hiding from something. He’d seen Draco use magic to shift his features often enough, seen how he avoided the taproom and lounge, seen him him paint his face heavily and let the long hair mask it when he got up onstage. Nero was many unsavory things, but he was no fool, and he had to know how his news would affect his skittish pet.

That’s why he’d dropped by this afternoon. To warn him.

Draco took a steadying breath, fighting to hide his distress behind a blank acceptance. “Why would Aurors come to a place like this?”

“Same reason everyone else does, ducks. To dip their wicks where they shouldn’t.”

Draco licked his lips nervously.

Aurors. Fucking Aurors. How many of the current crop were old classmates of his from Hogwarts? How many kept pictures of him on their office walls, labeled _Ministry’s Most Wanted_? How the _fuck_ was he supposed to get through this night?

“I suppose… stag party and all… they’re more interested in the girls?”

“Some of them will be, no doubt, but the one who booked the party specifically asked after you. Wanted to make sure my pretty Colin was performing tonight.”

 _Fuck_.

“Did you get a name?” His voice sounded strangely high in his own ears, and he cleared his throat.

“Not one I recognized.”

 _Not him, then._ A knot eased in Draco’s stomach—whether of anticipation or terror, he couldn’t say—and he let himself draw in an even breath. “What time?”

“They’ve reserved the two big tables by the stage for the second show.” Draco just nodded his understanding. Nero’s gaze sharpened. “You know the rules, ducks.”

 _The rules_ were no magic onstage, so no blurring or changing of his features during the show. Nero was very strict about this. Too many of his patrons paid good money to see Draco perform and he wanted them to leave happy. Satisfied that they’d seen the genuine article. Draco could transfigure his face subtly when alone with a customer, but onstage he had to rely on heavy makeup, colored lights, and the utter impossibility of the idea that Draco Malfoy would ever set foot in such a place.

So far, it had worked. If anyone had recognized him, they had either refused to accept the evidence of their eyes or decided that his degrading existence as a Knockturn Alley whore was punishment enough for his crimes. He had remained safely anonymous.

So far.

He’d have to keep his wand handy tonight. Prepare a couple of quick, subtle charms that he could cast in an eye-blink. And maybe, just maybe, he’d get lucky for once in his miserable life, and the groom-to-be would want Desdemona, with her lush breasts and curved hips, instead of Draco’s scrawny arse.

He wouldn’t count on it. He never got that lucky. But he could always hope.

Nero slipped both arms around him, his manner softening. “I expect you to give them their money’s worth. Send the Condemned Man off with a bang—a literal one, if that’s what he wants.”

“I will.”

“I know you will, my pet.” Nero was suddenly all honey and wandering hands again. He gathered Draco close and reached into his loose robe, caressed his bare his skin, while licking a trail up the column of his throat. “You always do me proud.”

Draco knew what came next and promptly turned to straddle Nero’s lap. Bending to let his long hair fall in a curtain around their faces, he brought his lips down to brush the other man’s and murmured, provocatively, “ _Now_ do you want me?”

“I really shouldn’t wear out that sweet arse of yours.” He kissed Draco again, more forcefully than before, and cupped his arse in both hands.

“What about my mouth?” Draco murmured. “Or my hands or my thighs…”

As he spoke, he rocked his hips forward to push his stiffening cock against the other man’s soft belly.

“Wicked boy,” Nero purred. “Go on, then. Give us your mouth.”

Draco immediately slid off his lap to land on his knees in front of Nero, even as the other man hitched up his robe and opened his flies. He was smiling as he bent to take Nero’s cock in his mouth, humming with pleasure, his lips swollen and reddened in anticipation. He wanted to do this, and that want was evident in every line of his body, every stroke of his tongue and touch of his hands.

It wasn’t that Draco found Nero physically attractive—how could he? The man looked like a blancmange in wizard’s robes. He simpered and lisped and minced. He _waddled,_ for Fuck’s sake! But beneath the layers of flab and affectation was the man who had saved Draco’s life, who had given him a roof over his head, food in his stomach, paying work and anonymity. Draco couldn’t forget this, any more than he could forget how it felt to be so hungry and cold that he couldn’t summon enough magic to light a candle. He would always be grateful to Nero for saving him from that. And he would always be ready to show his gratitude in the only way open to him.

 

Nero had found him two years ago, hiding in an abandoned store front in Knockturn Alley, weak, frozen, half-starved, trying to light a fire with no wand and almost no magic. He had taken Draco back to his club where he bathed him, fed him a hot meal, and put him to bed—alone. He’d asked no questions and made no demands. He’d given Draco the run of the place, letting him wander as he chose and talk to anyone he encountered, all the while feeding and cosseting him like a spoilt child.

In fact, Nero had not been spoiling him. He’d been assessing him—his tastes, his skills, his potential value. He had watched as Draco’s health and magic returned, watched him interact with the staff and the Talent, watched how he spoke and moved and carried himself. And he’d decided how he could best use him.

Nero had given Draco a few weeks before he came to his bed, and at first he’d been cautious. Tentative. Teasing and cajoling, as if afraid that his delicate bird would take flight if startled. But Draco knew by this time what was expected of him and had no intention of refusing. He knew that Nero’s ‘gentlemen’s club’ was in fact a brothel, the Talent his whores. He knew that if he wanted to stay, he’d have to work for his keep, and this was a work he understood. So he did as he had done countless times before—offered up his body in exchange for his life.

Once he realized that the fragile-seeming waif he had saved from starvation was tougher than he looked, Nero had put him through his paces. He’d taken Draco on his back, on his belly, on all-fours in the middle of the carpet, up against the wall and bent over a chair. He’d dressed him up, played out little scenes with him, introduced him to various toys and kinks, and even brought one of the female whores into his bed. That had failed spectacularly, but Nero was too practical a businessman to repine and had simply adjusted his mental calculations to keep women out of the equation.

Draco had passed his every test with flying colors, and Nero had rewarded him accordingly. Clothing, jewelry, makeup. Toys and equipment to please his more eccentric buyers. His own room with a bigger bed and softer sheets. Little gifts of money to spend on himself. Nero had even given him a wand, some battered old stick that he’d taken off a skint customer as payment. It was a pathetic wand by Draco’s standards, with a dragon heartstring core that reminded him unpleasantly of his Aunt Bellatrix, but a wand all the same. It gave him the means to control his magic for the first time in years.

Even the singing was a reward, of sorts, or that’s how Nero had presented it—a way to sell himself more effectively and raise his prices. Draco had wanted nothing to do with it. He was nervous of crowds, afraid of being recognized, and the thought of getting up in front of all those men and parading himself like an advertisement for sex was appalling. But, as always, Nero had prevailed.

Draco had inevitably donned a filmy bodystocking, painted his face, stood up under the enchanted lights, and sung his heart out to a room full of drunken, grasping, greedy men. They had loved it. Loved him. Thrown handfuls of gold at Nero for the privilege of fucking him. And the beautiful, androgynous creature with the haunted stare and the curtain of platinum hair had become the club’s number one draw almost overnight.

Two years later, Draco was still here. Still parading himself on stage, still selling his body, and still unwilling to say ‘no’ to the man who had saved him from a lonely death by exposure or starvation. The fact that Draco’s life was degrading and violent and destructive, that it was slowly killing him, that he could not endure it without drugs to cloud his brain and deaden the pain was irrelevant. Draco didn’t expect any better for himself.

Nero kept him safe and warm and fed. He hid him from the wrath of the Wizarding world, even if he had no idea who he was actually protecting. He was just in his punishments—only hitting Draco when he deserved it and paying for the dittany to heal him afterward—and liberal with his favors. Draco accepted the petting and blowjobs and buggery, as he accepted the beatings, as a necessary part of his life and a clear indication of his current standing in the closed, insular world he inhabited. A world entirely controlled by Nero and his large, soft, sweaty, bruising and caressing hands.

 

At this precise moment, those hands were buried in Draco’s hair, guiding his head as he sucked Nero off. Draco didn’t need his guidance—he’d done this a fair few times and considered himself an expert—but he accepted it gracefully, knowing his place. He knelt between Nero’s spread thighs, one hand resting lightly on the floor for balance, the other caressing the other man’s bollocks while he swallowed his short, thick cock. His own cock was hard and leaking but he ignored it, intent only on Nero’s pleasure.

In minutes, the big man was groaning and thrusting up into Draco’s mouth, his huge body quivering with building ecstasy. He stiffened and pushed Draco’s head down until he was gagging. Then, with a panting cry, he emptied himself down his throat.

Draco swallowed what he could while half-choking on cock and let the rest pool in his mouth. He did not move, waiting for Nero to signal that he was done, even when the prick lying on his tongue began to soften.

Finally, Nero gave his hair a tug, and he sat back on his heels. Come and saliva slicked his lips, ran down his chin, but he didn’t wipe them away. He merely sat there, looking up at Nero, waiting for instructions.

Nero held out his hands. “Come here, pet. Let me finish that for you.”

Draco glanced down to see that he was still painfully hard and wet. He rose gracefully to his feet and, under Nero’s urging, straddled his wide lap so that his cock jutted up between them. One large hand wrapped around it and began to pump.

Draco knew that Nero was showing his approval by pleasuring him this way. Nero was a busy man with a stable of whores to manage, and even with his favorites, he rarely had the time to waste on this kind of personal attention. But here he was, cuddling Draco on his lap, stroking him, getting him off as if he were a paying customer. As if he mattered.

This was just another way that Nero cared for him more than he deserved. Another reason that Draco could never defy him, never complain, never shy away from his punishing hand or plundering cock.

Waves of pleasure coursed through him, making his back arch and his eyes roll up in his head. His hands clutched at Nero’s shoulders. His thighs quivered as his hips lifted and rolled, pushing his cock harder into that expert grip.

“Let me hear it, pet.”

He gave a panting moan and thrust harder, ecstasy coiling in his belly, threatening to ignite.

“Louder. Come on, come for old Nero.”

With these words, he drove two fingers into Draco’s unprepared body, tearing a cry out of him and pitching him instantly into a long, wracking, pain-shot orgasm. Come pumped, hot and slick, over Nero’s fist and Draco’s belly, ran down to their interlocked thighs, painting them both with his release. Draco shuddered and sank back onto his seat, then let his spine curve forward until his face was buried in the curve of Nero’s neck.

A heavy hand stroked his back, even as the other hand unwound from his cock. He felt a cleaning spell strip his skin.

“That’s my beauty. Now, give your Nero a kiss to say thank you.”

Draco lifted his head and fastened his lips to Nero’s, letting him taste the come and gratitude on his tongue. They kissed deeply, but not for long. It was clear to Draco that their interlude was over and Nero’s mind was on business once more.

The moment Nero pulled back, Draco straightened up and disentangled himself from the other man’s lap. Nero gave his bare thigh a slap that hurried him along, then closed his own flies and pulled his robe back into place.

“You get your sweet self ready for a night of hard labor, my pet.”

Draco nodded and watched Nero walk to the door. He waited, head bowed, face empty, until the door shut behind the other man and his heavy tread faded into silence. Then he let his legs fold and dropped down to sit on the rug. Propping his shoulders against the chaise, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

_Aurors. Here, in his refuge. Aurors like Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom. Like…_

With an explosive curse, he bounded up off the floor and over to the dressing table. His hands shook as he tugged open first one drawer, then the other, rifling them in growing panic. There was nothing there. Nothing left. No little, waxed paper packet with its delicious lumps of raw sugar and thick, bitter, purple syrup.

_Bloody fucking hell! There was nothing left!_

A loud thump made his door tremble, and a grating voice called, “Oi! Colin!”

“Jules!”

Before the name had left his lips, the door flew open to admit a scrawny figure in a manky, grey shift. She limped into the room, kicking the door shut behind her, and fixed him with a gap-toothed grin.

“Wotcher, Col.”

Jewel was the _Horntail’s_ drudge and laundry maid. She was a ragged, pock-marked, wall-eyed urchin with a bum leg that she dragged behind her like the corpse of her childhood dreams. She was next door to a Squib and so ugly that even the most desperate Saturday night revelers didn’t try to get into her pants. But she was also quick and cunning and kind, in her foul-mouthed way. And she was Draco’s only friend.

He greeted her now with a wide, genuine smile such as few people had ever seen on his face. “Thank Circe you’re here! I need you…”

She snorted and fixed one scornful eye on him. The other drifted over toward the wardrobe. “I’ve ’eard that one b’fore. Never get nuffink out of it, though, do I?”

Draco grinned. “What do you want?”

“Twat,” she said fondly. Holding out a bundle of neatly-folded fabric, she added, “’Ere. Third time I’ve mended it in a week, so try not to muck it up again.”

Draco accepted the bundle, recognizing it as his paisley-patterned costume. “You fixed it? That’s brilliant!”

She scoffed and shrugged, a pleased smile tugging at her lips. “T’other one’s ruined. ’Ad to bin it.”

“That’s all right. Nero won’t notice. But he particularly likes this one, and he’ll murder me if I destroy it.”

“’Is Nibs said t’give you this, too.” She fished a small, crystal phial from her pocket and tossed it to him.

Dittany. Another genuine smile broke over Draco’s face. “Thanks.”

“So. You need sumfink?”

“Yes! Hold on…” He set the costume and the dittany on the cluttered dressing table, then dived for the bed. Crawling half under it, he pulled out a battered cardboard box.

This box had come with him from his last home, sat beside him through his darkest and coldest nights in Knockturn Alley, and now stayed under his bed, walled up behind concealment and protection spells. Not that it held anything worth guarding so fiercely. Just the bits and pieces of a life he had lost years ago. But he treasured them as all he had left of Draco Malfoy, the boy who had died in the Battle of Hogwarts.

Newspaper clippings and photographs, all folded and squashed against the sides of the box to hide their subjects. An old Slytherin tie. A Snitch wrapped in a black sock to keep its wings from fluttering. A couple of books. A green and silver knitted scarf. The trousers from a pair of Hogwarts hospital wing pajamas. He didn’t remember what had happened to the shirt, but every time he opened this box, he paused to run his fingers over the worn flannel of the trousers, drawing comfort from them. And there, at the bottom, under the pajamas, was what he sought—a handful of silver and bronze coins, all the share Nero had given him of the many Galleons he earned on his back.

Scraping the coins together, he fitted the lid back on the box and shoved it under the bed. Then he offered the little pile to Jewel.

“Here, take it. It’s all I’ve got ’til pay day.”

She let him pour the coins into her hand, then she turned them over with a finger, weighed them, and frowned. “You need some sugar, Col?”

“Can you get it?” Draco asked anxiously. “Can you slip out to Magda’s for me?”

Jewel was not only Draco’s friend; she was also his drug supplier. She knew every rat that dwelled in every fetid corner of Knockturn Alley and knew where to purchase everything from innocuous sleeping potions to Black Market body parts. When she wanted potions ingredients, like Syrup of Poppies, she had a variety of sources to chose from, but Magda was the most reliable. Draco was one of her best customers.

“Course I can,” Jewel said dismissively. “’Is Nibs is busy in the orfice, won’t see a fing.” She frowned again, her expression more concerned than annoyed. “This won’ get you more’n a taste, luv.”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m desperate! There’s a big party coming in—a stag party—and you know what they’re like! I won’t make it through on my own.”

She sighed. “I’ll see wot I c’n do.”

Draco broke out in a relieved smile. “You’re an angel.”

“Humph,” she grunted. Then she leveled an accusing finger at him and snapped, “Maybe I am, but I ain’ no bleedin’ charity, an’ you owe me, Col. You know this inn’t enuff to buy wot you need an’ I’ll ’ave to cover the rest.”

“I know, and I’ll buy you a whole bottle of that foul Transylvanian Blood Liqueur you love so much as a thank you… when Nero finally pays me. Fuck. I’ll buy you a fucking diamond ring and _marry_ you, if you get me through tonight!”

“Yeah.” She smirked knowingly at him, her ugly face full of equal parts affection and derision. “Like you’d know wot t’do wif a _wife_ , you bloody poof.”

“Well… I know how to spend money on one.”

“Money you don’ ’ave. Go on, then, luv. Get yerself pretty fer the buggers an’ leave this to me.” She hefted the coins, then tucked them into her shift.

Draco kissed her cheek. “You really are an angel, Jules. What would I do without you?”

“Buy yer own bleedin’ candy.”

With that, she turned and limped out of the room, leaving Draco secure in the knowledge that she would not fail him. Squaring his shoulders with a new determination, he turned to confront his mirror and the task at hand—turning the ghost of Draco Malfoy into Knockturn Alley’s prettiest whore.

He could do this, he told himself, as he dug a tube of base paint out of the litter on the tabletop and uncapped it. He’d done it countless times. He’d managed to hide his identity while Cornelius Fudge was fucking him, hadn’t he? If he could keep it together through that, he could handle anything. Right?

Right.

After all, it’s not like the Fucking Savior of the Fucking Wizarding World would be there tonight…

 

*** *** ***

 

When Harry apparated away from Narcissa’s cottage, all he thought of was escape. It wasn’t until he found himself on the streets of Bayonne—a city he knew not at all and had come to only because it was the nearest protected apparition point between Britain and the Continent—that he realized he had nowhere to go. The thought of going back to his empty home and his snarky cat made him shiver. He couldn’t face the silence. Not with his hopeful visions of that cottage full of warmth and love still burning behind his eyelids, making his eyes sting with tears.

For a brief, brilliant time, he had dared to hope that his long ordeal was over. He had dared to picture Draco standing in front of him, reaching out for him, stepping over his threshold and back into his life. He had savored it, let it creep into his heart, only to have it ripped away. Again.

It was his own fucking fault. He should have known better— _did_ know better—than to let his guard down like that. He was getting tired. Sloppy. Being alone did that to him.

The streets of Bayonne offered no distractions, no salve for the throbbing agony in his chest. He wandered them anyway, until darkness and a cold rain drove him indoors. In a cozy, little bistro near the river, he ate a meal that he didn’t taste, drank a glass of expensive wine as if it were water, and tried not to hear the low laughter at the nearby tables.

As he lingered over his espresso, he finally confronted the fact that he was out of options. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t inflict his grim mood on an exhausted Hermione or distract Ron while he was working a case. That left only one place to go.

An hour later, still wondering what the hell he was doing, he stepped off the Charing Cross Road and into the Leaky Cauldron. The taproom was packed when he pushed open the door. He slipped inside, shut the door, and turned to scan the room, part of him perversely hoping that he was too late. He wasn’t.

“Oi! Harry!”

“There he is, the Savior himself!”

“Over here, mate!”

“ _Harry_ bloody _Potter!_ What hole did you crawl out of?”

Ducking his head in embarrassment, Harry crossed the room to be met by a flushed and ebullient Seamus. He clapped Harry on the shoulder, gestured so widely with his pint that he slopped dark liquid onto the floor, and bellowed, “Good to see ya, Harry! Ron said you weren’t coming.”

“Changed my mind,” Harry mumbled, as the crowd opened to welcome him in.

He recognized most of the dozen or so partiers. Neville was seated at a table, a pint and a plate of chips in front of him, with Dean Thomas, Ernie MacMillan and Anthony Goldstein crowded round. Several other Aurors had come, including some of the older men who didn’t usually mix with the Young Wands. Montague, a former Slytherin who worked with Seamus in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, was chatting up the barmaid, while Hannah’s brother Gideon sat talking to Dean. Ron was not there.

Seamus produced another pint for Harry and nudged Anthony out of the way so he could sit down next to Neville. Harry settled onto the bench with a contented sigh. A sip of Black and Tan sent warmth coursing through his chilled limbs.

This was good. This was what he needed. He felt his spirits lift just a little.

“Thanks for coming, Harry,” Neville said, his voice low enough that the rest of the crowd couldn’t hear. “I know you don’t like this kind of thing, but…”

“I wouldn’t miss it, Neville. Honestly.” His eyes darted about the room, picking out the familiar faces, all alight and smiling. “And this is nice. Not what I expected from Seamus.”

“Oh, this isn’t the party!” Seamus crowed from just behind him. A heavy hand fell like doom on Harry’s shoulder, pinning him to his seat. “This is just the warm up!”

“Huh?” Neville gulped. He looked as nervous as Harry suddenly felt.

“What, you thought this was it? A drink at the Leaky Cauldron? Don’t be daft! We’re going to send you out in style, boyo!”

Neville almost cringed. “How?”

“Drink up and I’ll show you. Come on, everyone! Time to go!”

The crowd of laughing men obediently drained their tankards and shuffled to their feet, while Harry took a few more frantic slurps of his own drink. Neville let Seamus chivvy him out of his seat and across the taproom toward the back courtyard. He waved a farewell to Tom, the barman, and shot an embarrassed smile at the barmaid when Montague took advantage of the confusion to pinch her bum. Harry watched it all with a wry twinkle in his eye. He fell in at the back of the group, only half hearing Seamus’ overloud commentary as they filed through the door into the cramped courtyard.

“Trust me, Nev, you’re gonna love this place. Monty took me there for my birthday and it was brilliant.”

“In Knockturn Alley?” Neville demanded, and Harry privately shared his scepticism.

“Best place for it.”

Seamus had the brick archway into Diagon Alley open, and he stood aside to let the others step through it. Dean hesitated beside him, murmuring, “Do you really think this is a good idea?”

“Neville’s a grown man,” Seamus retorted in a carrying voice.

“I wasn’t thinking about Neville,” Dean hissed, his eyes cutting over to Harry.

“Pfft!” Seamus snorted, flipping his hand dismissively and shoving Dean through the wall ahead of him. “Harry’ll get a larf out of it.”

“Out of what?” Harry asked.

“I’m not sayin’ a word! Don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

At that point, Montague dropped into step beside Seamus and interjected, “Quit worrying, Thomas. Potter’ll love it. So will Longbottom. I know they’re Aurors, but there’s no law against looking. Not against touching, either, come to think of it,” he added with a wolfish grin.

They were all traipsing down Diagon Alley now, Harry, Dean, Seamus and Montague bringing up the rear.

“Touching _what?_ ” Neville asked worriedly, slowing his steps to fall back with Harry. “Where are we going?”

“A gentlemen’s club,” Seamus replied, “called the _Horntail._ ”

Gideon Abbott craned his neck to look back at them. “I’ve heard of that place! It’s a… a… _house of ill repute_.”

“He means a whorehouse,” Montague cut in with another of his predatory grins.

Neville blanched. “A whorehouse?”

“Or a brothel, if you prefer,” Dean supplied.

“A _brothel?_ Why are you taking me to a _brothel?!_ You don’t expect me to…”

“Relax, Nev,” Seamus said, clapping him on the shoulder and half dragging him into the black maw of Knockturn Alley.

Most of the Aurors in the group lit their wands. Harry just shoved his hands in his pockets and trailed after Seamus, listening with a wry smirk on his face.

“There’s plenty of other stuff to do there—food, drinks, a bloody good show—and they don’t charge you just to look.”

“But… but…” Neville spluttered.

“The show alone is worth it,” Montague assured him. “There’s this one bloke who’ll make you wonder how straight you really are.”

“ _Bloke?!_ ” Neville almost shrieked.

“They’ve got birds, too,” Montague assured him, “but I’m telling you…”

“Don’t,” Seamus cut in firmly. “Don’t spoil it.”

Montague shrugged but shut his mouth and let the others’ conversations wash over them as they wended their way down the Alley.

It hadn’t changed much since Voldemort’s fall, just gotten darker and more depressing because fewer people ventured down here. Many of the shops were boarded up, empty since the war, but Harry recognized a few, like Borgin and Burke’s, that were still in business. He had been here once or twice on Auror business, but never this far down the Alley.He didn’t know what to expect when he saw light flickering ahead and stepped out into a wide, cobbled square.

Dark buildings drew back on either side, their windows blank, their secrets hidden behind locked doors. A fountain stood in the center of the square—a wyvern crouched in a stone pool, some liquid too dark and thick to be water pouring out of its gaping mouth—and sullen lamps on iron posts ringed its edge. The light they threw was bluish, like wandlight, and seemed to thicken the darkness, rather than driving it back. Only one structure on the right side of the square showed any signs of life.

Like so many wizard buildings Harry had seen, this one appeared to stay up by magic alone. Three stories tall, it leaned drunkenly against its nearest neighbor and angled out over the square, as if threatening to collapse on anyone who ventured too close. But the upper windows burned with colored lamps and the street door was open, flickering light and music pouring out of it. Above the door hung a sign that identified it as the _Horntail_ , with a dragon picked out in magical lights on it. The beast writhed and postured and huffed multi-colored smoke from its nostrils in a way that Harry assumed was meant to be enticing. In fact, it was ridiculous. Obviously, whoever had created that sign had never seen a Hungarian Horntail in person.

Harry chuckled at it, but Neville was not amused. He gazed up at the snorting dragon and asked, doubtfully, “Why the _Horntail?_ Is it dragon-themed? Do they serve drinks that smoke?”

Seamus laughed. “It’s a play on words. A… what do you call it? _Double entendre._ ”

“I don’t get it,” Neville mumbled.

“Just think about it.” Neville blanched, and Seamus gave him a cheerful slap on the shoulder. Then he shoved the resisting man toward the sunken, blaring, faintly ominous doorway.

Harry was about to step across the threshold on Dean’s heels when he abruptly realized what he was doing and stopped. “Hang on…”

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked. Beyond him, Neville paused, as well.

“I can’t go in there.”

“What’s the matter, Potter?” Montague teased. “Afraid someone’ll recognize you?”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” he snapped. Then he shot an apologetic look at Neville. “This is your party, not mine. I don’t want to spoil it by attracting too much attention.”

“So disguise yourself,” Neville suggested. “You do it all the time in the field, and no one recognizes you.”

Harry heard the pleading in his voice, knew that Neville didn’t want to brave a Knockturn Alley brothel without Harry for backup, and relented. Pulling out his wand, he closed his eyes and muttered a spell. Magic washed warmly over his skin. His features shifted and warped. His scalp tingled. When the magic had cooled, he opened his eyes and looked a question at Neville.

“All right?”

Neville broke out in a relieved smile. “Brilliant.”

Harry braced himself, then nodded. “Let’s do this.”

 

The _Horntail_ was every bit as horrible inside as Harry had expected. It was all colored lights, pungent smoke, pounding music and sweating men. They were ushered into a dark, crowded room by a huge pudding of a man in metallic turquoise robes. He burbled happily as he led them to two tables set just at the foot of a low stage. Then he handed them over to a pretty young man in too-tight trousers called Brant and a woman called Desdemona who kept trying to bury their noses in her impressive cleavage.

Harry claimed a seat as far back from the stage as possible and ordered a drink. He was definitely going to need it. Neville took the chair to his left, Dean the one to his right, while Seamus, Gideon and Montague filled up the table. At least they were all acquaintances, if not friends, Harry reflected. He could act like himself with this group, even if he couldn’t _look_ like himself. He took a sip from the pint that Brant conjured for him and leaned back, trying to relax.

Across the table from him, Monty downed half of his own drink and nudged Seamus with an elbow. “He’s on tonight, yeah? You checked?”

“I checked.”

“I still think this is a bad idea,” Dean grumbled into his glass, his eyes cutting over to Harry and Neville.

“Why?” Harry asked. When Seamus lifted a hand to brush away his question, he leaned forward, insisting, “I don’t like surprises, Seamus. What’s going on?”

“Let’s just say it’s a chance to get a bit of your own back.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

No one, not even a rollicking-drunk Seamus, could miss the warning in his voice. Seamus blinked at him, then grinned. “It’s only a joke. It’s not even him.”

“Not even who?”

“Just a fewkin’ brilliant lookalike.”

“Not even _who?_ ”

“You’ll get a chuckle out of it, Potter,” Montague assured him, “all you Gryffindors will.”

“Shut it, you eejit, before you spoil everything,” Seamus growled, and Montague subsided with a knowing smirk.

Harry was inclined to press him for details. He liked the smug look on Montague’s face even less than he liked the idea of being surprised. But spotlights suddenly flared up, painting multi-colored ovals on the stage, and Harry realized that he was out of time. The entire over-crowded room began to hum with anticipation as the enormous pudding who had greeted them walked out onto the stage.

He placed himself in an amber spot, striking a pose that was oddly commanding in spite his of grotesque appearance. Then he lifted his wand in a beringed hand to cast a _Sonorus_ charm. The audience fell quiet.

“Welcome to the _Horntail._ It’s lovely to see you all here tonight,” he boomed. He had a faint lisp that fit all too well with his flamboyant appearance. “My name is Nero, and I’m here to make sure you enjoy yourselves. So if you need anything—anything at all—just ask for me.”

Harry knew precisely what that meant. From the grins on several of the faces nearby, the rest of the audience did, too.

“But I’m sure you’d all rather watch my lovelies perform than listen to old Nero blathering, so let’s get right to it. First up, everyone’s _favorite_ virgin… _Diana the Huntress!_ ”

Nero said this with such relish that Harry very nearly inhaled his beer on a laugh, but much of the crowd obviously knew this _Diana the Huntress_ and roared with approval. The lights dimmed. A slender figure dressed all in fringed silver lamé strode onto the stage. An unseen band struck up a pulsing, bass-heavy number, and Diana began to dance.

She was good. Harry would give her that. Whatever his crimes against fashion, Nero obviously knew his business, and Harry wasn’t embarrassed to admit that he enjoyed the performance. Diana finished with a move that made him raise his eyebrows, then she took a bow and strode off the stage. Several of the men in the audience scrambled toward the side door in her wake, obviously making for the booth where Nero sat.

Diana would turn a tidy profit tonight.

The next performer was a singer, a woman with midnight black hair and metallic blue lips. She drew fewer men to Nero’s table than Diana. Another act followed her, then another, and Harry began to grow bored. He finished his first pint and started on a second—his third, really, counting the one at the Leaky Cauldron—not enough to get him pissed, but definitely enough to make him fuzzy round the edges. A nice feeling, but he couldn’t afford to get too comfortable when he had to maintain his disguise and look out for Neville.

He was in need of a slash and looking around for the loo when the mood abruptly shifted, dragging his attention back to the stage. The lights changed, went blue and green and deep, subterranean red. The audience immediately fell still, then began to mutter, and tension gathered palpably in the room. Then a figure stepped out the wings, bare feet silent on the boards, and moved toward the puddle of green light at the center of the stage.

At first glance, the creature seemed to be made entirely of hair and legs—a curtain of shining platinum and long, slender, powerful legs encased in something transparent that shifted colors as they moved. Harry could not tell if it was a man or a woman. The hair seemed feminine, but the posture, the play of muscles, the feline power of the strides were distinctly masculine. Then the figure stepped into the light, turned, and lifted a hand to push back the cascade of silver-blond that shadowed its face.

Harry’s heart stuttered. His breath caught.

It was a man. The most beautiful man Harry had ever seen. The heavy makeup he wore made him look inhuman, as if his face were cast in porcelain instead of flesh and blood, but the eyes that gazed out at the room from beneath blackened lashes were alive. Sad, wary, almost haunted, but definitely alive. And his hands—long and white and graceful—made Harry’s throat ache when they moved to push back his hair once more.

He knew that gesture. Even if the face could lie, the makeup could fool him, he knew those _hands._ It was incredible, impossible, unbearable. It was…

“ _Holy fuck,_ ” Dean breathed.

Seamus leaned close, eyes gleaming, to mutter, “Didn’t I tell you? Too bad it isn’t really him.”

Harry jerked back, his chair skidding against the floor, only to fetch up against the one behind him at the next table. The air rushed out of his lungs on a sob. Then Neville’s hand closed on his arm.

“You okay?” he murmured in Harry’s ear.

Harry shook his head numbly and tried to detach himself from the other man’s grip. He had to get away. This wasn’t happening. It _could not be happening._

Before he could move, the man onstage opened his mouth and began to sing.

The voice was lower than Harry had expected. Not particularly loud or strong, but with a rough, burred edge to it that felt like callused fingers dragging over his skin. Quidditch-callused fingers. Lust and agony shot through Harry’s body, from his fingertips to his groin, and he choked back a moan.

Neville’s fingers tightened on his arm, anchoring him. “It’s not him,” he whispered. “Seamus says it’s not him.”

“Seamus doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about,” Harry gasped. Then, with another strangled cry, he tore himself free and lurched out of his chair.

He was halfway to the exit, the sound of that incredible, sensual voice lashing him like a whip, when Neville caught him again. He dragged Harry over to the bar that ran across the back of the room and parked him on a stool. Then he sat down next to him.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I’d never have asked you to come, if I’d known.”

“Not your fault,” Harry muttered.

“It can’t it really be him, can it? I mean, even if he is alive, he wouldn’t… you know…”

Harry turned to look at the stage and his stomach clenched with mingled horror and longing. The man was singing a song he vaguely recognized—something dark and despairing that seemed to scrape his vocal cords raw—and even from here, Harry could see the emotions wracking him. His slender body, painted with shifting colors, fairly vibrated with pain as he sang. It was enthralling. It was gut-wrenching. It was more than Harry could stand and keep his sanity.

“Harry.” The soft voice jerked his attention back to Neville. “What are you going to do?”

Harry felt his face harden with sudden determination. “I’m going to get a closer look.”

“How?”

“Pay for it.”

Neville swallowed nervously. “Do… do you really want to do that?”

“I don’t have a choice.” Pushing himself to his feet, he caught Neville by the arm and pulled him up after him. “I need your help, Neville.”

“Anything.”

“I need to use your name.”

He swallowed again, nervousness edging into horror. “To do what?”

“Jump the queue. You’re the groom, right? This is your party. So, if it’s okay with you, I’ll pretend I’m you to get special treatment.”

“Oh. Umm… You, umm, won’t let Gideon hear, will you?”

Harry almost smiled at that. “Afraid it’ll get back to Hannah that you’re shagging prostitutes in Knockturn Alley?”

“Something like that.”

“You can tell her it was me.”

“She wouldn’t believe it.” He waved a hand toward the group at the tables. “Maybe I should just Confund them all, so they don’t blow your story. Then Gideon’ll never know.”

“Good idea. Just be gentle with the spell. You don’t want them forgetting their real names or marrying the waiters or anything.”

Neville laughed and gave a little wave as he sidled back into the crowd. Harry made straight for the booth where Fat Nero sat, like a swollen spider, waiting for the Galleons to stick in his web. The grotesque lump of flesh watched him approach, wearing a satisfied smile that said he knew exactly what Harry wanted. Harry put on his best eager, flustered face and let himself stumble a little as he drew near the table, catching himself on its edge. Nero chuckled at his antics.

“Watch yourself, ducks, or you’ll end up in the soup.”

Harry grinned shamefacedly at him and let a blush creep up into his cheeks. “You’re Nero? The man who runs this place?”

“I am indeed. And who might you be, my lovely?”

His flush deepened in disgust at Nero’s form of address, but he let it play as elation. “Neville.”

“Ah. The lucky bridegroom. Well, well.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” He almost scuffed his foot against the carpet but stopped himself in time. Better not to lay it on too thick.

“And what can I do for you, Neville? Looking for something special to mark the occasion?”

“I was, umm…” His eyes cut over to the stage, where the singer was crouched at the lip, his hand extended to one of the Aurors at the front table, his face a mask of existential pain. “I was hoping for a turn with him.”

Nero chuckled, his belly shaking. “You and everyone else in the room. You’ll have to get in line, darling.”

Harry pasted a look of dismay on his face and almost whined, “But this is my last chance! My last night of freedom! I told Hannah I’d behave tonight. I _swore_ I would. But, he’s just so… so beautiful, and it’s not like it’s really cheating, is it?”

“You wouldn’t do just as well with young Brant, there? He’s a pretty thing and quite available.”

“Oh, no.” Harry shook his head earnestly. “I don’t want a _bloke_ , or… well… not just _any_ bloke, I mean. I…”

“Hm.” Nero’s eyes twinkled at his display of adorable confusion, the he smiled and reached over to pat Harry’s hand. “I do have a soft spot for a condemned man, and I can’t fault your taste. I’ll see what I can do.” Harry broke out in a huge grin, and Nero leveled a fat finger at him. “But you won’t go first. I have customers in front of you that I can’t shift. And it’ll cost you something extra. My sweet Colin doesn’t come cheap!”

“How much?” Harry asked, reaching for his pocket.

Nero waved him away with a fruity laugh. “I’ll put it on your friend’s tab. Call it a wedding present.”

Pulling three Galleons from his pocket, Harry held them out to Nero with another bashful smile. “Just to say thanks. And to hold my place in the queue.”

“Patience, my darling, you’ll have your turn.” The Galleons disappeared into Nero’s voluminous robes, then he waved his heavily-ringed hand again. “Off you go, then. Enjoy the show. I’ll call you in about an hour.”

 

The next hour was the longest in Harry’s memory. He waited out the rest of Colin’s performance at the back bar, enthralled by every note, hanging on every gesture, terrified to get any closer for fear he’d lose his tenuous control on himself. Only when the distant figure had taken his bow and walked from the stage, as silently as he’d come, did Harry venture back to join his friends.

Neville’s _Confundus_ charm seemed to be working. No one commented on his absence, much less on his return, and the name ‘Harry’ did not pass their lips. Gideon even went so far as to ask Harry if he was nervous about the big, family wedding awaiting him on Sunday. Harry laughed it off and ordered himself another drink.

He’d lost count of the number of pints he’d consumed and was three sheets to the wind by the time he saw Nero sailing through the tables toward him. Leaping to his feet, he mumbled a farewell to his oblivious friends and hurried to meet him.

“Is it time?” he asked breathlessly.

Nero laughed and waved him to follow, then turned to plow a path back through the crowd. Harry trotted after him, surreptitiously checking to be sure his disguise was still firmly in place. It wouldn’t do for anyone to spot the Chosen One ducking into the back room of a brothel with the likes of old Nero.

Beyond the main lounge, the _Horntail_ was an aged and sagging rabbit warren of dim hallways and creaking stairs. Nero took Harry up to the first floor, then down a hall lined with closed doors. He stopped at a door halfway down it and gestured for Harry to move back, but Harry ignored him. He crowded up behind the fat man, just as he knocked on the door and pushed it open.

Harry got a quick glimpse over Nero’s shoulder of a small, shabby room, a mirror reflecting candlelight, a tangle of bright fabrics spilling out of an open wardrobe, a tawdry red velvet chaise. Then his gaze was caught and held by the hideous sight of a pair of wide, hairy, naked buttocks working in and out, rutting furiously, with white limbs spread out beneath them.

He choked on bile, staggered back, fell against the wall. He didn’t hear Nero speaking to the pair of hairy buttocks or hear its answer. He knew nothing but his own roiling disgust until Hero grabbed his arm and thrust him into the room. The door clicked shut at his back.

Harry paused a moment to collect himself, to find the Gryffindor in him, then lifted his head. Grey eyes caught his, and he found himself staring down into a pale, thin face smudged with makeup and traces of come, framed in a tangled curtain of silver-gilt. The owner of that face lifted a hand to wipe his mouth, smearing lipstick across his cheek. Then he plucked a sheet from the floor by his feet and wiped his thighs with it. He did it mechanically, unemotionally, and when he lifted his eyes to meet Harry’s again, they were flat. Empty.

At the sight of them, something inside Harry snapped.

He lunged forward, forgetting his caution and disbelief, forgetting the spell that masked his features, crossing the floor in one stride to fling himself onto the chaise. Without giving the other man a moment to react, he caught his thin, white shoulders in bruising fingers and pulled him into a fevered kiss. Their lips crashed together. The cold ones pressed to Harry’s opened, offering him more, and he thrust his tongue between them. Then he was drinking in a flavor, a scent, a sensation he remembered so vividly that the power of it almost stopped his heart.

It was true. He was here. Like the hands, the taste of him could not lie. He was here, and Harry was home.

Pulling back just far enough to drink in the other man’s face with his eyes, Harry smiled and said, “Hullo, Draco.”

**_To be continued…_ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco is singing another David Bowie song from the Ziggy Stardust album, circa 1972, called “Rock ’n' Roll Suicide”. I didn’t include lyrics, so you can imagine any song that suits you, but that’s what I was listening to while I wrote that scene.


	5. Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here we go... Please remain in your seats and keep your hands and arms inside the car at all times. And hang onto your hats.

****“ _Hullo, Draco._ ”

 

The name struck him a physical blow. His head jerked back. His gaze flew to the face hovering so close to his own. He stared, too shocked even to feel panic, and felt a warning squirm in his guts. Then, under his uncomprehending eyes, the stranger’s face began to shift. To change.

Nondescript hair darkened. Thickened. Rounded features hardened. The tip of a scar appeared from under his fringe, not quite touching one firm, black brow. And the eyes staring so intently into his went from brown to…

“Nnngh. No.”

Draco pulled out of his clasp, half falling from the chaise and staggering to his feet. The man kept one hand on his arm, gripping it, refusing to let him go. He stared down at it in horror. It was both utterly familiar and completely alien.

“ _No._ ”

“Draco…”

“Get… get off…” He jerked free of those strong, callused fingers, wincing even as he gained his freedom.

“It’s me, Draco. It’s really me.”

“I know… who…”

He couldn’t catch his breath. His chest heaved on something close to a sob, and he staggered as his legs collapsed under him. The man was on his feet in a flash and caught him, pulled him against his chest.

“Get your hands off me.”

“Shh.”

The man guided him back onto the chaise, still holding him close in both arms, then slipped a hand up to push the tangled hair back from his face and cradle his head.

“It’s me,” he whispered. “It’s Harry.”

“No.” Draco tried to wrench his head away, but he had lost both strength and volition at once. He could do no more than turn his face from the fierce green eyes fastened on him.

Green. Green everywhere. Burning, glowing, swallowing him up.

“Please. I can’t…”

“Shh.”

The hand on his head turned him, coaxed him, drew him into the kiss waiting for him. He grunted a protest and screwed his eyes shut, even as lips touched his in a heated caress. Lips that he remembered. Lips that he longed for. Lips that he dreamed of every night when the drugs took him and carried him into a place far from pain and degradation. Lips that offered him love and safety and happiness. Lips that tasted of Harry.

“ _Gaah! No!_ ” He tore his head away, shoving against the other man’s chest to break the kiss. “ _Don’t touch me! Don’t…_ ”

“Draco, please! It’s me! It’s really me, Harry, I swear it!”

“I know who you are!” He turned wild, wounded eyes on the familiar face hovering so close to his own and cried out again in mindless agony. “Do you think you could fool me? Do you think I couldn’t… couldn’t tell… Oh, fuck!”

He wrenched out of the other man’s arms again and tumbled off the chaise, one hand clamped over his mouth to smother his sobs. Not that he could hide anything. Not with tears streaming down his face, leaving ugly black tracks in their wake. Not with his naked body on display, stained with sweat and come and bruises, or with the memory of what Harry had seen just moments before blazing in his mind.

His knees folded, and he dropped down to kneel on the rug, his body shaking with sobs and tears running over the hand still clamped over his mouth. Behind him, he heard Harry rise from the chaise, cross to him, crouch at his back. A moment of stillness, then a warm hand touched his shoulder.

“Dragon.”

“ _Don’t call me that!_ ” His voice was thick with tears, muffled by his own hand, but sharp and furious all the same.

Harry dropped his hand. “All right.” He hesitated, then tried again. “Come sit with me. Talk to me. I won’t touch you, if you don’t want me to.”

A frisson of pain went through Draco’s body at that. He wanted to crawl under the rug, sink through the floor, find a hole that would swallow him whole and never let him see the light of day again. He wanted to burrow into the other man’s arms and weep until his body shook apart. He wanted… he _wanted_ … Oh, Merlin, how he wanted!

“Draco.” A hand came to rest on his shoulder again, then slid across his back and caught his upper arm in a strong embrace. “Come on. I’ll help you.”

“I don’t need your help.” The words were reflexive. Foolish. Patently wrong. But he couldn’t stop them or take them back, once they lay between them.

Harry sighed and hoisted him to his feet. “I know, you never do. Come on.”

Draco couldn’t stop his feet from obeying when Harry led him over to the chaise, or his knees from folding once more to drop him onto the filthy cushions. He landed in a damp puddle and shivered in disgust at its touch. Drawing his naked thighs together, he shoved his clasped hands between them and hunched his shoulders defensively. He was trembling all over, but he didn’t know with what. Cold? Shame? Revulsion? Fear?

…Longing?

Harry sat next to him, angled so that their knees touched. His eyes seemed to devour Draco’s face, even with the screen of his hair hanging between them. Draco ducked his head further to avoid them but couldn’t shield himself from their touch. They were like nails catching in his flesh.

“Draco.” His voice was a caress that hurt worse than the tearing nails. “What are you doing to yourself?”

“Surviving,” Draco snarled back.

“Here? Like this?”

“This is what I know.” He risked a glance up at the other man and saw those terrible green eyes frowning, filling with tears. The answering pain in his own body nearly dragged a cry from him, but he swallowed it ruthlessly and said, his voice hard, “It’s what my father trained me to do. Lucky for me he was such a good teacher, or I’d have starved to death by now.”

“You’re not a…”

“A what?” Draco shot back. “A whore? Yes, Potter, that’s exactly what I am!”

“You don’t _have_ to be!”

Draco gave a sobbing laugh and twisted away, bringing a hand up to swipe across his watering eyes. “Still trying to be the Savior? It’s too late for that.”

“No. Draco, please, I don’t understand!” Forgetting his promise not to touch, Harry reached out for him, caught him by the shoulders, and turned him forcibly in his direction. “Why would you do this? Why wouldn’t you come to me?!”

Harry’s hands on his bare skin burned in a way that was half agony, half ecstasy. Draco wanted to fling himself into his arms, cling to him, beg for his kisses and his touch, but at the same time he wanted to die on the spot before he had to endure another second of this torture.

“You were dead!” he cried, still trying to twist away. “I saw you… dead on the grass… _him_ standing over you… You were dead and I was alone. I had nowhere to go!”

“For _three years?!_ You couldn’t possibly have thought I was dead all this time!”

“It was too late!” Tears slipped from his eyes, left burning trails down his cheeks, and his chest heaved on a sob. “By the time I realized you were alive, it was… it was too late… _Fuck, Harry!_ ” he gasped, now weeping in earnest, “why did you have to come here? Why c-can’t you just… leave me _alone?!_ ”

“ _Leave you alone?!_ You unforgivable git! I’ve been searching for you for _three fucking years!_ ”

Draco hiccuped on another sob and lifted his hand to wipe his nose, his arms still clenched tight in Harry’s grip. “Right. Three years. Harry fucking Potter, the great Auror, the Chosen fucking One, looked for three years and couldn’t find what was under his fucking nose.”

“Like I was supposed to know you’d turn up in a fucking _brothel?_ ” Harry shot back. Draco was relieved to hear anger in his voice. It was easier to bear than the sorrow and pity and pain.

“Before,” he mumbled sullenly. “When there was still a chance. Before I… turned into _this_.”

“When, Draco?” Harry gave him a sharp shake. “When was I supposed to find you? _Where?_ ”

Draco shot him a challenging glare from beneath his clumped, wet lashes. “Where do you think?”

Harry just shrugged and shook his head.

“The Manor.”

“The Manor?”

Something about the blank stupidity in Harry’s tone brought anger up like molten lead in Draco’s throat. “Of course the Manor, you fucking imbecile! Where else could I possibly go?!”

“But… I looked at the Manor.”

“Not very hard, obviously.”

Harry’s own temper, always so ready to explode, rose to meet Draco’s, and his fingers tightened on bare, white arms. “I searched that bloody place as well as I could, with all those booby traps and wards and Dark spells all over it! I searched and searched… _three fucking times_ I went there! And you’re telling me you were _there?_ When? For how long?”

Draco shrugged. He desperately wanted to pull away from Harry, to avoid his piercing gaze, but all he could do was stare back at him in defiance. He could feel the other man’s fingers bruising his arms, but that was nothing. A distant pain that made no impression on him. What were a few bruises when compared to the soul-deep agony of looking into Harry Potter’s eyes again and seeing the love in them, the _want—_ a want he felt echoed in his own chest, twisted in his own guts—and knowing that this was the end for them.

All these years of hiding, of dreaming, of wanting. Always some part of him hoping that he’d see Harry again, but always knowing that he could never survive it. He was dying as he sat here, and part of him was glad. So glad that it was finally over. So desperate for the pain to stop. So sorry that he couldn’t kiss Harry goodbye and whisper his love into his ear.

“Draco?”

The demanding bite in Harry’s voice and the fury in his eyes were an accusation. He dropped his gaze to his own lap, and the drying come on his thighs brought him out of his self-pitying reverie with a thump. He was not a dying lover casting himself on the sacrificial pyre to spare his beloved. He was a whore. He was a commodity. Draco Malfoy was nothing but a ghost in the mirror, the fading image of a boy long dead, and all that was left was this. This thing.

“Answer me,” Harry growled.

“I was there for more than a year,” he said to his folded hands and his naked, soiled lap.

“No.” Harry shook him again, harder. “That’s impossible. I went there, looking for you, and the place was empty. Then it was _sold_.”

“Yes.” Draco finally lifted his eyes to meet the other man’s. “Estate, furniture, fittings and sundries, all the property of Phineas Boggs. I suppose I qualified as a sundry.”

Harry gulped, his throat working. “What are you saying?”

“He bought me. How many ways do I need to say it?”

Harry just gaped at him, eyes nearly starting from his head, and Draco found a well of courage in himself, of bitterness, from which he dredged up a sardonic smile.

“Old Phineas wasn't a bad sort, all things considered. He didn't hit me. He occasionally got me off, as a treat, after he'd finished. He bought me new clothes sometimes, though as often as not, he dressed me as a girl. Then there were the three months I spent with jet black hair and green eyes, while he pretended he was buggering the famous Harry Potter. But most of the time he was all right. I'm sure I'd still be there, spreading myself for the Lord of Manor, if he hadn't thrown me out.”

“Why…” Harry licked his lips. “Why did he throw you out?”

“It wasn't his fault. He was very tolerant. But the third or fourth time he came home from a hard day at the Ministry to find me so loaded I couldn't assume the position, he decided I wasn't worth the effort.” Draco shrugged, looked away. “He gave me a handful of Sickles for bus fare and a clean set of clothes. Pretty generous, considering it was his money I spent on drugs.” Another shrug. “I got as far as Knockturn Alley without a copper to my name and sat down to die. That’s where Nero found me.”

Harry’s grip tightened convulsively. “I was there, at the Manor. I showed up, right after the story appeared in the paper about Boggs buying it. He said… he said he had no idea where you were.”

“He lied.”

“You were really there?”

Draco nodded. “I was probably upstairs in the Master bedroom. That’s where I spent most of my time—there and down in the kitchens with the servants.”

“Did he tell you I’d come?”

“No.” Draco risked another glance at him and his eyes were caught, held by Harry’s intent gaze. “But it wouldn’t have made a difference. It was too late.”

“Why do you keep saying that? What do you mean?”

“I’d already sold myself, by then.”

“You think that would have mattered to me?” His hands petted Draco’s arms, sliding over the bruises they’d made and down to his clenched fists. At their touch on his thighs, Draco shivered and tried to pull away, but Harry wouldn’t let him go. “It never did. I thought you knew that.”

“This wasn’t like before,” Draco whispered. “No one forced me. No one threatened me. I did it of my own free will, sold myself to the first man who offered, to save my pathetic life. My father didn’t turn me into a whore, Harry, _I did._ ”

Harry lifted a hand to brush back his hair and cradle his cheek. Against his will, Draco turned into his touch, let his eyes drift closed and his lips part on a soundless moan of longing. Then the other man spoke. “But _why_ , Dragon?”

The name struck him like a lash, and he flinched back, breaking the gentle touch. “Don’t!”

“Why didn’t you reach out to me? Tell me where you were?”

“You were dead.”

“That’s was _two months_ after the battle! How could you still think…?”

“ _How was I supposed to know?!_ ” Fresh, angry tears started in his eyes. “I saw you dead. I died myself. Then I woke up in hospital and no one knew who I was.”

“If you’d told them…”

“They would have arrested me! I knew Voldemort was dead—the Vow was gone, so he had to be—but for all I knew it was Longbottom or Weasley or Shacklebolt who actually killed him. I thought it was all some kind of sick joke! The smiles on the nurses’ faces… the references to their Savior… I couldn’t s- stand it…”

He broke off, fighting the tears that choked him, swallowing the tightness from his throat that was only made worse by Harry’s firm clasp on his hands.

“I left St. Mungo’s before anyone figured out who I was and went to the Manor. It was empty, with new wards set, but the old Malfoy wards were still in place and they knew me. They let me in. The house protected me, hid me whenever anyone came. Then Phineas bought it and the wards changed. I was trapped inside, unable to hide or to get out through the wards without alerting him, so I just… surrendered to him.”

“You thought he’d turn you over to the Aurors,” Harry supplied quietly.

Draco shrugged. “I suppose. I didn’t care, by then.”

“But he wanted you for himself.”

A shudder of remembered horror went through him. “Phineas was a pretender. He enjoyed dressing himself up in the borrowed finery of an ancient pureblood family, imagining that he could buy our status and our prestige along with our portraits. I was just another part of the Malfoy family that he could own. And he liked sweet young boys, of course.”

“Draco…”

He gave a twitch of his head, throwing off Harry’s pity along with his own. “Too bad for old Phineas that the Malfoy family was already disgraced. Finished. All he got for his money was a haunted house and a trophy fuck he couldn’t show off to his friends. I think that was his biggest disappointment—having to hide my identity when he so desperately wanted to brag about having Voldemort’s rent-boy in his bed.”

“Please don’t say things like that!”

Draco met his gaze squarely, all desire to weep or run gone at last. He was all numb acceptance now, having exposed himself to Harry in every possible way. “It’s the truth. This is what I am now, Harry. Not a victim of my father or Lord Voldemort. Not the boy you tried so hard to save. Just a whore.”

“I don’t care. Do you hear me? _I don’t care!_ ” He was reaching for Draco again, clasping his head in trembling hands, trying to pull him close into a healing kiss—as if there was any way to heal him, now.

“Don’t be stupid. Of course you do.” He tore free and turned his whole body away from the man sitting so close beside him. “It was different when I could blame my father, but this is all my doing. I made a choice to hide rather than face punishment for my crimes, and to prostitute myself rather than starve. I made myself into something you could never love.”

“Don’t tell me who I can love!”

“Oh, for Fuck’s sake, Harry! Look at me!” He twisted back around to confront the other man. “I mean, really _look at me!_ How many men have fucked me, just tonight?! How many have paid for the privilege?! I’ll bet _you,_ paid, didn’t you?”

“I… yes, I did. I had to.”

“Because I’m a _whore_ , and that’s what people do when they want to spend time with me!” He cocked his head, pasted a provocative smirk onto his lips and tried to sound coy when he said, “I always give my customers their money’s worth.”

“Stop that.”

“I can’t.”

Turning fully around, he slipped his arms around Harry’s neck and leaned toward him, an offer in every line of his body, even as a little voice inside him began to wail and weep.

“This is my job. I have to make sure you leave happy, or Nero will beat me. So how can I make you happy, Harry?” He brushed his lips lightly over Harry’s. “How can I make you smile?”

“You can stop acting like a trollop.”

“I’m not acting.”

Harry grabbed his forearms, detached them from his neck, and pushed him back. But he didn’t let go. “I didn’t pay to fuck you or to sit here while you seduce me.”

“Of course you did.”

“No. I paid so I could get into this room and talk to you.”

“Just talk?” His arms snaked around Harry’s neck again and his lips hovered just above the other man’s. “We never wasted time talking, before.”

“Seriously? Are you seriously going to make me treat you like a whore?”

This time, when he touched Draco, it was not to push him away but to lock his arms around his body and pull them together. Suddenly, Draco found himself crushed against Harry’s chest, dragged onto his lap, caught in a flaming kiss that shot straight to his groin. He gasped, and a tongue thrust into his mouth. His cock came up hard and there was nothing he could do to hide it, naked as he was and pressed flush against Harry’s body.

Harry hummed into his mouth, deepened the kiss, and stroked a hand down to caress his arse.

Draco whimpered. It was a pathetic sound. Desperate. So far removed from his pose as the cold and practical sex worker that it brought a flaming blush to his cheeks. But he couldn’t swallow the sound any more than he could cool the heat in his loins or soften the erection caught between their straining bodies.

He wanted this so badly that it hurt. Wanted it with every cell in his body, every drop of blood in his veins. Wanted Harry on and around and in him again. Just once. Even if it meant that Harry had truly bought him.

“Draco.” The warm voice brushed him, as the lips that had plundered his so perfectly moved against his skin. “I’m not going to use you like this.”

Draco swallowed a sob and ducked his head to push it into Harry’s shoulder.

“I know what you’re trying to do, and I won’t let you.”

With an incredible effort of will, Draco summoned a light, bitter voice that hid the pain and fury raging inside him and retorted, “I’m trying to do my job.”

“You’re trying to make me hurt you to prove a point. I won’t do it.”

“Then get the fuck out of here, Potter, and let someone else have a turn.”

“I won’t do that, either.”

Draco’s head snapped up. A sneer contorted his face. “What _are_ you planning to do, then?”

“Talk some sense into you.”

“Get… get the fuck off…” He tried to push himself out of Harry’s arms, but the other man was too strong for him. He held Draco to him with an arm like steel across his back and petted his hair with the other hand, trying to calm him. “ _Get your hands off me!_ ”

“No.” The hand smoothed his hair, touched his cheek, wiped at a smear of crimson lipstick that marred it. “You’re mine, for the hour at least, and I’m not letting you go. So quit struggling.”

“Fuck you, Potter!” He slammed a fist into Harry’s shoulder, dragging an _oof_ from him but failing to loosen his grip. “Fuck you and the pack of Aurors you came in with! Are you going to arrest me? Is that what this is all about?!”

“Git,” Harry said affably.

“How did you even find me?! Clearly you’re a piss-poor investigator, since you couldn’t get your head out of your arse long enough to find me when I was right under your nose! So how did you stumble across me after all this time?”

Perversely, Harry seemed to find his temper tantrum amusing. An alluring half-smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth, a twinkle showing in his eyes, when he answered, “It was just that, actually. I stumbled across you.”

“Fucking brilliant.”

“I came here for Neville’s stag party and saw you on stage.” His eyebrow quirked maddeningly. “ _Singing_. I mean, what the fuck, Dragon? Since when can you _sing?_ ”

Draco nearly choked on his own horror.

 _Bloody fucking hell._ Was he not to be spared a single humiliation? He’d rather spend a lifetime in prison, face a regiment of dementors with no wand to defend himself, than picture Harry sitting in the audience, watching him put himself on display like that!

“Don’t worry,” Harry went on, oblivious to Draco’s distress, “Neville’s the only other person who recognized you, and he won’t give you away. The rest of them think you’re a fake. A Draco Malfoy Impersonator, or something of the sort.”

“Nnngh,” Draco groaned, feeling the same blind panic take him that he had felt when he first saw Harry sitting beside him.

It was too much… Harry seeing his act, seeing through his mask, buying him, wanting him, making Draco want _him_ … Too much to bear. Why couldn’t Harry just fuck him and go? Why couldn’t he be like all the others? Why did he have to be such a hero? Such a savior? Why did he have to be _Harry fucking Potter?!_

“No!”

With a burst of strength he didn’t know he had in him, Draco tore out of Harry’s arms and leapt to his feet.

Harry made a grab for him, crying, “I’m not going to hurt you, Draco!” but Draco dodged him and made for the dressing table.

He was aware of Harry on his feet, at his back, but he ignored him. His fingers raked through the litter on the table, searching, then fumbled the drawer open. He was shaking. He clenched his fist to still the tremor, then snatched the waxed paper envelope from the drawer. There were only two lumps in it—all Jewel could get for the few coins he’d given her—and he was starting early, but they would have to do.

“What is that?” Harry demanded, as Draco ripped open the package to reveal the two sticky lumps of sugar.

Draco didn’t bother to answer, just peeled one lump loose and popped it in his mouth.

“Hey!” Harry grabbed his arm, pulled him roughly around. “What are you doing?!”

Draco had his eyes closed, savoring the sweetness and the first traces of bitterness on his tongue, so he didn’t see Harry lash out. All he knew was that, one moment he was poised on the edge of bliss, and the next, he was staggering from a blow to the back of his head, mouth open, sugar flying out to land on the floor.

“What the f…”

A flash of power from Harry’s finger, and the little lump of sugar disappeared in a gout of flame.

“ _You fucking bastard!_ ” Draco screamed. He lunged for the dressing table and the other sugar lump, but Harry was too fast for him. Another flick of his finger, and another jet of power consumed the entire envelope, leaving nothing but a sticky smear on the table top and the odor of burnt sugar.

In another life, Draco would have taken a moment to appreciate the raw power and tight control that allowed Harry to destroy the single object on a cluttered surface without so much as singeing the other objects around it—all without a wand. But in that moment, Draco had no room in him for appreciation, or even for rational thought.

Pain blossomed inside him. Horror. Panic. He clutched at his hair, tore at it, screamed in rage and agony, too overcome even to find words.

Harry grabbed him around the waist and tried to catch his head with his free hand, calling, “Stop it, Draco! _Stop!_ Calm down!”

“ _What are you doing to me?!_ ” Draco howled, his voice filling the room and tearing through the walls. “ _Why are you even here?!_ ”

“I’m here to help you!” Harry shouted back, still struggling to subdue him. “I’m not going to let you poison yourself!”

With another wordless howl of agony, Draco tore at his own face, dragging his nails down his cheeks and leaving bloody tracks in their wake. Harry swore and set him back on his feet so he could catch both his wrists.

“ _Don’t!_ Bloody hell, Draco!”

“ _Let me go! I don’t want your help!_ ”

“I don’t give a fuck what you want! You’re going to stand still and…”

A pounding on the door cut him off and brought his head around with a snap. He had his wand in his hand before the sound had faded.

“Colin?” It was Nero’s voice, and he sounded worried. “Are you all right?”

“We’re not done, here!” Harry roared. “Get the fuck away!”

“Nero!” Draco shrieked.

The doorknob started to turn, but Harry stopped it with a flick of his wand. Nero paused, jiggled it, then began pounding on the door again.

“Open this door!” he bellowed, all traces of the lisping queen gone. “Open it now, or I’ll break it down!”

“ _Fuck you!_ ” Harry snarled and sent another spell crashing into the door.

It disappeared.

For a startled moment silence reigned, as the men on either side of the wall absorbed the fact that it was now completely solid, the door gone. Then Nero began to pound and yell again and Draco crumpled to the floor with a sob.

Harry went down with him, dropping to his knees, pulling him into his arms. And for the first time since Harry had appeared in his room, Draco did not fight him. He simply lay there, weeping, too exhausted and broken even to resist the thumb that wiped away his tears.

“Shh,” Harry breathed into Draco’s tangled hair. “Shh, I’ve got you.”

“P-please, Harry. Please. Just g-go,” he stuttered out between sobs.

“I’ll never leave you again, Dragon.”

“I’m not y-your dragon. I’m not.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“He’s dead. D-Draco Malfoy is dead. M-maybe, if you’d come… if you’d f-found him in h-hospital or… _Oh, Merlin, Harry_ ,” he groaned, turning to bury his face in the other man’s midriff, “ _I can’t do this!_ ”

“You don’t have to do anything but trust me. I’ll get you out of here, hide you ’til we fix things with the Ministry, get you your name and your life back.”

“This is my life.” Draco made an effort to swallow his tears, but he kept his face hidden in Harry’s shirt and secretly welcomed the weight of Harry’s arm across his shoulders. “I belong to Nero, like I belonged to Phineas and Voldemort before him.”

“You don’t belong to anyone.”

Draco stirred uncomfortably and whispered, “I belong to you. You bought me, for an hour anyway.”

“Then consider me your last owner, because no one is ever going to buy you again.”

Draco sighed and closed his eyes. He felt both infinitely at peace and utterly despairing at the same time. Harry’s closeness, his warmth, his palpable love were all that Draco had ever dreamed they could be. Lying this close to him and listening to the rumble of his voice through his ribcage was bliss. These minutes were a gift beyond price that he would carry in his heart to the end of his days. But they were fleeting. A mirage. A moment that would vanish like vapor on the wind, leaving Draco as a ghost once more.

Harry Potter had bought him. Harry Potter had touched him. Harry Potter was alive in the world and still in love with Draco Malfoy. That would have to be enough. Draco’s ghost would subsist on that, while the creature who inhabited Draco’s dying body went through the motions of killing it once and for all.

Harry’s hand petted his hair, then rested on his head. “Draco?”

He stirred and sat up, fixing deadened eyes on his one-time lover and would-be savior. He shook his head. “He’s gone. If you want me, for old time’s sake, you’re welcome to have me. You paid for it, after all. But don’t pretend it’s him.”

“Oh, _Dragon_ ,” Harry groaned, pulling him in for a clinging kiss.

A thud and a roar from the other side of the wall announced Nero’s return. Harry broke the kiss and shot a glare over his shoulder, just as the wall trembled and magic moved in the air.

“Nero’s coming for me,” Draco murmured. “If you want to fuck me, you’d better hurry.”

Another thud, another roar, and a patch of brown like a burn scar appeared in the middle of the wall. Harry lurched to his feet, his wand in his hand. Draco reached up to touch his other hand, almost gently.

“Harry?”

In answer, Harry grabbed his wrist and hauled him to his feet. Draco stumbled to catch his balance, but Harry’s arm around his waist pulled him in tight to his sturdier body. He tried to push away, sensing the power building in the other man and not wanting to be caught in whatever cataclysm he unleashed. Harry’s eyes were fixed on the wall and the spells shaking it, but he did not lift his wand to counter them.

“Let me go, Harry. It’s too late.”

Harry’s head snapped around and his eyes caught Draco’s. “The hell it is.”

Then he turned into the crushing darkness, dragging Draco with him.

 

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a long time to write this chapter, because I had convinced myself that it had to be as close to perfect as I could get it and I was frankly terrified even to start. Then I realized... I didn't want this one perfect. I wanted it raw, spontaneous, erratic and painful, as if we were experiencing the scene from inside Draco's head in real time. I wanted it to stagger and limp and fly apart, not flow in a neat story arc. So I closed my eyes (metaphorically speaking, of course, since I need them open to type) and jumped.
> 
> This is the result. I proofread it for typos and grammar but resisted the urge to edit and refine it. I hope it made you feel all the contradictory things that Draco is feeling, and that you enjoyed reading it! Please let me know what you think!


	6. The Road to Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know the saying: The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Well, Harry is about to learn the truth of those words and get his first lesson in Consent.
> 
> A heartfelt Thank You to my wonderful reviewers! You inspire me and keep me writing when my muse deserts me!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the chapter!

 

They appeared, with a crack, in the middle of a dark, cold space. Harry gave a sweep of his wand to light a handful of lamps and bring a fire to life on the stone hearth beside him. Another burst of power drove out the chill in the air, then Harry tucked his wand into his pocket and wrapped both arms around Draco.

He had stopped struggling. He hung limp in Harry’s embrace, his head falling to his shoulder, but it was not a trusting posture. It was broken. Defeated. Harry cradled him close and felt his heart fluttering in panic against his own.

As gently as he could with the deadweight of a fully grown man in his arms, Harry moved up to the side of the antique tester bed that stood opposite the fireplace and lowered Draco down to sit on the mattress. Draco’s legs folded without resistance. His hands fell to the coverlet at his sides, lying with his fingers curled helplessly. Without Harry’s chest to support it, his head drooped forward and his hair fell over his face in a tangled curtain.

It was like handling a life-sized doll. Harry’s skin crawled at the thought.

“Draco?” He kept one hand on Draco’s shoulder, afraid that the other man would simply collapse if he let go. “Do you want something to eat? A cup of tea, maybe?”

Draco lifted his head and fixed flat, blank eyes on Harry. Gazing up at him out of smudged rings of eyeliner and blackened lashes, they seemed almost white, as if a film of ice had covered the grey.

“Where are we?” he asked softly.

“My home. My bedroom, actually.”

What little color remained in Draco’s face abruptly drained away, and he darted a nervous glance around the room. Harry suddenly wondered if his own bedroom was the best place to bring his frightened, damaged lover. He hadn’t stopped to think, just reacted to what he perceived as a threat to Draco, and brought him here on instinct.

Had he fucked up?

“I’m sorry, I… I just thought you’d be comfortable here. And safe. My wards will stop anyone from getting in, so Nero can’t…”

“You took me away from the club?” Draco’s voice was shaking. So was his shoulder under Harry’s hand.

Harry quickly sat down beside him and slipped an arm around him, rubbing his hand up and down one thin, white arm. “Are you cold? Let me find you some clothes.”

“You… you took me…”

“You’re safe here, Dragon, I promise.”

“He’ll punish me.” His tone was oddly flat as he said it. Harry couldn’t decide if that meant he was completely numb or utterly terrified, but either way, Harry was desperate to reassure him.

“He won’t. He can’t.”

“It’s our busiest night… the middle of a party… I can’t leave. He’ll beat me, and then I won’t be able to work, with the bruises and the…”

“No. Shh.”

Harry turned to face him directly and gathered him into his arms. Draco didn’t fight him, but he showed little sign that he noticed.

“It took three days to heal, last time. He was s-so angry.”

Now Harry was sure that it was terror making him stutter and tremble. He pulled Draco half onto his lap, holding him close with one arm and clasping his head with his free hand. “It’s all right. Trust me. Everything’ll be all right.”

Drawn by the undercurrent of power in his words, Draco turned toward him, and suddenly they were face to face. So close. Draco’s breath hot and quick on Harry’s cheek. Draco’s lips, still smeared with crimson, nearly touching Harry’s own. Draco’s weight on Harry’s thighs, so welcome… so familiar…

Harry moved without thinking, leaning in to capture his mouth. For a handful of seconds, Draco did not move. The lips caught against Harry’s did not warm. Harry had just enough time to think, _fucked up again, Potter,_ when he felt Draco’s mouth open in invitation. He groaned his relief and longing, tightened his clasp on Draco’s head, and plunged his tongue into his mouth. Draco’s tongue rose to meet it, and Harry was lost.

Lust and longing, years of aching loneliness, passion such as he could only feel for one creature in this world all exploded in Harry with a force that knocked him senseless. He was drowning in a molten soup, falling off a cliff that had no bottom, flying through the night without a broom, Draco’s lips and hands and body his only anchors to reality. He was dancing on the edge of insanity, whirling his lover in his arms, and laughing with sheer joy as he did it.

Somewhere in the madness, they fell back onto the bed and Harry rolled half atop the smaller man. He pushed a knee between Draco’s thighs, spreading them, and began to rut furiously against his hip with an erection huge enough to burst his pants. Draco clung to him, moved with him, pressed his own stiffening cock against Harry’s thigh and moaned into their locked mouths.

Harry felt the orgasm tightening in his belly, ready to ignite, and he pulled out of the kiss to mutter, “I want to make love to you. Come inside you. Please, Dragon…”

“When you’re done, will you take me back?”

The words struck Harry like a fist in the face, snapping his head back and jerking him up off of Draco’s body. “What?”

Draco gazed up at him with nervous, faintly pleading eyes so at odds with his raging erection that, under any other circumstances, it would have made Harry laugh. Now, it made his stomach writhe and his own erection wither. Lust congealed into a frozen lump in his guts.

“When you’re done with me,” Draco repeated, his voice as uncertain as his gaze, “will you take me back?”

For a hideous moment, Harry couldn’t move. Then he shook off his paralysis and scrambled clumsily to his feet, his limbs suddenly too long and ungainly for him to manage properly. He gestured toward Draco, taking in his nakedness, then awkwardly shoved his hands into his pockets. Suddenly, the last thing he wanted to do was touch him.

“I’ll…” He had to swallow twice to get the words out. “…get you some clothes.”

“Please.” Draco pushed himself up on his hands. “I don’t have a wand. I can’t apparate without one.”

“And some food,” Harry went on, stubbornly ignoring his words, “something to warm you up.”

“Harry, please.”

The edge of fear in his voice was too much for Harry. He snapped, rounding on Draco and catching him by the shoulders. “You’re not going back there!” he almost shouted. “You’re _never_ going back there!”

Draco’s eyes widened in shock. “You… bought me?”

“ _What?!_ ”

“You really did it? I thought you meant for the hour, like… like my other…”

“ _Don’t say it!_ ” Harry hissed and gave him a sharp shake to punctuate his words.

“My other customers,” Draco went on, oblivious to his fury. “I thought you just wanted to fuck me. I thought, if I didn’t fight it, you’d fuck me and let me go, before Nero got angry.”

His eyes widened even further, and tears began to slip through his lashes to leave dark tracks on his deathly-white cheeks.

“I didn’t think he would actually… s-sell me…”

“ _Fuck!_ ” Harry swore. He jerked his hands back, as if the touch of Draco’s skin burned him, and felt tears starting in his own eyes. “He didn’t! _I_ didn’t! Dragon, I _wouldn’t. Ever._ You have to know that!”

“You…” Draco’s eyes found his face and, for the first time since they’d appeared in his bedroom, Harry felt as if they were actually seeing him. It wasn’t a nice feeling. “You didn’t. You just…”

His breath quickened. His chest began to heave. Harry saw a tremor go through him that seemed to shake his very bones. Then he abruptly leapt to his feet and hurled himself at the door, screaming, “ _Let me go! Let me out!_ ”

“No!”

Harry caught him two steps from the bed and wrapped both arms around him. Draco struggled like a mad thing, twisting, turning and lashing out with elbows and knees. When Harry didn’t falter, he uttered a wordless cry and grabbed fistfuls of his robe, straining to push him away, to push himself free of the larger man’s arms. Harry hung on for all he was worth, pulling his head away when Draco tried to claw it, then butt it with his own forehead.

“Stop… stop it! Draco!”

“Let me go! He’ll kill me! He’ll…”

“He _won’t_. I won’t let him!”

“You can’t keep me here!”

“I have to! You’re safe here! Draco, _please!_ ”

“Nnngh… _Noooo!_ ” Draco howled, slamming a fist into Harry’s chest so hard that Harry finally had to loosen his hold. With a strength born of panic, Draco managed to tear himself free and get his feet on the floor. He staggered, nearly fell, then righted himself and started for the door.

Harry, as terrified as his lover, once again reacted on instinct. Whipping up his hand, he shouted, “ _Stupefy!_ ” then bounded forward to catch Draco when the spell struck him. He was sobbing as he laid Draco’s inert body on the bed.

“I’m sorry, Dragon. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but you didn’t give me a choice. I can’t let you go out there. Too many people want to hurt you and that fat fuck Nero is at the top of the list. I can’t let him touch you, ever again, him or any of them. You’re better than that. You’re my beautiful dragon, and I won’t lose you again, I _won’t_.”

The words spilled from Harry’s mouth like the tears spilled from his eyes, keeping up a constant commentary as he worked to make the unconscious man comfortable. He settled Draco against a pillow, then stroked a cleaning spell over his skin and hair with gentle hands. He dug in a carved, antique chest of drawers to find pajamas and dressed Draco in them before pulling the blankets up around his shoulders. After apparating down to the kitchen, he returned with a tray containing a bowl of warm water, a cloth, and a couple of potion phials.

Only when he had one of the phials unstoppered and ready did he finally rest a hand on Draco’s head and murmur, “ _Rennervate._ ”

Clumped and sticky lashes fluttered upward to reveal dazed grey eyes. Before they could come fully into focus, Harry slid a hand behind Draco’s head to raise it and tilted the phial to his lips.

“Drink this.” Draco stared at him in confusion edged with fear. He did not part his lips. “It won’t hurt you, I swear. It will just help you relax. Maybe sleep.”

“I can’t…”

The instant Draco opened his mouth to speak, Harry tipped the potion into it. Then he covered it with his hand, whispering, “Shh. Just swallow.”

Draco swallowed.

Harry smiled sadly down at him and set the empty phial on the tray. “Thank you. Now I’m going to clean up your face, while we give that time to work.”

Draco frowned at him, but said nothing as Harry began to wipe away the makeup and other, less pleasant substances marring his face. The cloth rubbed across one of the gouges he’d torn in his cheek, and he winced.

“Sorry,” Harry murmured, blotting more gently at the wound. “I don’t want to use a spell on those and the rag is a bit rough.” He offered Draco another wistful smile. “I’m not much of a healer, I’m afraid.”

“Harry.”

“Shh. Lie still.”

“Harry, what have you done?”

Harry abruptly dropped his hands to look Draco in the eye. His expression was as bleak and despairing as his voice, and it clenched around Harry’s heart like a fist of ice. His hands were shaking when he reached for the second potion and tipped a little of it onto the rag.

“Saved you,” he answered, going for firm but ending up somewhere around pleading.

“You can’t. It’s too l…”

“ _Don’t_.” Harry silenced him with a fierce look, then swallowed his anger and went on, more quietly, “Don’t say that.” He began to blot at the gouges on Draco’s face with the potion-soaked cloth. “It’s never too late, not as long as we’re both breathing.”

Draco stared up at him, looking wan and thin and colorless without the makeup on his face. His lips were nearly white. “Draco Malfoy stopped breathing a long time ago.”

“Draco Malfoy is right in front of me. Right where he belongs, at last.”

He bent down to drop a kiss on Draco’s lips but checked when he saw the other man brace himself for the contact. The bleak, stoic acceptance in his face and the tightness of his lips were worse than any rejection. After a moment’s hesitation, Harry moved to place the kiss on his forehead, instead.

Draco suffered the touch without a word, then turned his head sharply to the side and closed his eyes. Harry caught a glimpse of moisture clinging to his crystalline lashes.

“Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Again, Draco didn’t respond, but Harry could tell by his slowing breaths that the potion was taking hold and dragging him into unconsciousness. Harry’d made the dose a strong one, not wanting him to fight the effects. It made him vaguely uncomfortable to sandbag his lover this way, but he couldn’t afford to be squeamish. Not when Draco’s health and safety were on the line.

He waited ’til Draco’s face had gone slack, his mouth fallen open, then he pressed another kiss to the corner of his eye and stood up. A swipe of his wand gathered up all his paraphernalia and lofted the tray into the air. Then he slipped out of the room and locked it behind him.

 

*** *** ***

 

The first rays of morning light coming through the deep-set, diamond-paned windows brought Harry out of a fitful doze. He straightened up in his chair, swinging his feet down from the mattress and startling Abraxas from his place on his thighs. His bleary, slitted eyes found the offending window.

Fuck. He’d forgotten to close the curtains.

Stumbling to his feet, he rounded the bed to reach the far wall, where he pulled the tapestry curtains across both windows. Then he fired a burst of magic at the hearth to stoke up the fire. By its light he could see that Draco was still deeply asleep, curled beneath the blankets, his face buried in a pillow and his hair spilled around him like a cloak of silver fur. From this distance, he looked young and soft and peaceful, but when Harry moved up beside him, the illusion shattered.

The years had not been kind to Draco. He was only 21, barely an adult, and if he’d lived the privileged life that was his birthright, he’d only just be growing into his full strength and beauty. Instead, he was already a wasted shadow of himself, his limbs white and thin and scarred, his cheeks hollowed with purple shadows and lined with pain. Even the warm firelight could not lend him color, and even the refuge of sleep could not smooth the ravages of abuse and dissipation from his face. The gouges torn by his own nails were the freshest wounds but not the worst. They hurt, they bled, but they would heal. The rest might very well not.

Harry brushed the hair back from Draco’s cheek, then dropped a light kiss on his head. The icy fist had closed around his heart again when he turned to leave the room. He had no bloody idea how he was going to save Draco this time. He only knew that he had no choice but to do it, because losing Draco again would kill him. It was that simple.

While sitting in the dark, counting Draco’s breaths, waiting for him to wake up again, Harry had tried and failed to come up with a plan. His failure should have bothered him more than it did, but the truth was that plans were not really Harry’s strong suit. He relied on instinct. Those instincts had served him well in everything from Quidditch to winning a fucking war, so he could only hope that they wouldn’t let him down this time. He had Draco back where he belonged, and that was the important thing. That was _everything._ The rest he would figure out as he went along.

So, first things first. Get a few essential tasks out of the way before Draco woke up and… well, he had no bleeding idea what Draco would do when he woke up, so he’d best be ready for anything.

Striding out of the room, Harry locked the door behind him, just in case, and took the stairs to the ground floor two at a time. As he reached the entryway, he whistled for his owl. She came swooping out of the parlor and landed on his outstretched arm, then nipped his ear.

“Good morning, Nessa,” Harry said, heading for his office with the Horned Owl perched on his arm and the cat following at his heels. “I have a couple of letters for you to deliver. And yes, I know I forgot to let you out last night. I’m sorry.”

In the dim, warm, book-lined room, he set Clytemnestra on her perch and pulled writing materials from the desk. Under the cynical eyes of both cat and owl, he sucked briefly on the feathered end of his quill, then scrawled a few lines across the parchment. They read:

 

_Robards,_

_I am taking some time off to handle a personal matter. In case of emergency, you can reach me through Ron Weasley._

_Sorry for the short notice. I’ll be in touch._

_H. Potter_

 

It was brief to the point of rudeness and probably not the most diplomatic way to address his boss, but Harry didn’t have time for empty courtesies. He just wanted Robards off his back for a few days. His only qualm was that he was dumping Ron in the dragon dung with him. He’d just have to remember to warn his partner before he next headed into the Ministry and got blindsided by an apoplectic Robards.

Blowing on the ink to dry it and shoving the parchment into an envelope, he wrote Robards’ title and _Department of Magical Law Enforcement_ on the front, then he held it out to Clytemnestra.

“Deliver that to the Ministry of Magic Owl Office, please, and come straight back. I promise you’ll have time to hunt afterward.”

She took the envelope in her beak, giving him an inscrutable look from her flat, yellow eyes. He got up to open the window. Clytemnestra flew past him with an affectionate buffet of her wings, soared out the window, and disappeared into the growing light. Harry shut the window and returned to the desk.

He had a second letter to write—one he’d promised to send, though it gave him no pleasure to do so—that was even shorter than the first. Tearing a small strip of parchment off a large sheet, he wrote simply:

 

_He’s alive and safe._

 

After printing Narcissa Malfoy’s name on the other side, he rolled it up tight and stuffed it into his pocket.

He was in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea and picking at a plate of scrambled eggs, when Clytemnestra returned from the Ministry. She soared in through the open window above the sink and landed on the table with a thump. Harry set down his fork to offer her a strip of bacon rind.

“That was fast.”

She just blinked at him and held out her leg. Harry tied the scroll to the offered leg with a length of string and added a sticking charm, just to be sure she didn’t lose it in flight.

“Okay, my beauty, this one goes to Narcissa Malfoy,” he said, giving her a gentle scratch beneath the soft feathers of her neck. “I don’t have an address, just an idea that she’s somewhere in Southern France, so I’m counting on you to find her. But it’s no rush. Take your time, catch yourself some breakfast on the way, and enjoy the trip. I’m not expecting an answer, and you can take as long as you like getting back.”

That earned him a click of the owl’s beak and an affectionate nibble on his finger before she launched herself through the window again. Harry got up to close it behind her, but instead of returning to his unfinished breakfast, he made for the teapot still steaming on the hob. A wave of his wand summoned a clean cup, which he quickly filled with tea and expertly doctored to a taste he could never forget—two scoops of sugar, a dash of milk, a single stir that made it swirl prettily. Another wave of his wand lofted the cup and saucer up to shoulder level and steadied it. Then he strode out of the room with the teacup trailing after him.

At the door to his bedroom, Harry banished his levitation spell and took the cup in his hand. He leaned close to listen but heard no sound from behind the heavy door. Tucking his wand into his pocket, he clasped the latch, banished his locking spell with a thought, and pushed the door open.

The bed was empty. Harry’s gaze swept the room, even as he stepped into it and closed the door gently at his back. He just had time to register a thin, pale figure in oversized pajamas, cloaked in platinum hair, standing in front of the hearth with his back to the door. Then the snick of the latch broke the utter quiet and brought the bright head around with a snap.

Draco stared at Harry—face pinched, eyes glassy and feverish, fingers pulling unconsciously at the sleeves that hung down over his hands—in taut silence. He frowned in confusion. Then he said, “It is you. I thought I’d dreamed it.”

Harry offered him a wry half-smile. “Nope. It’s me, Harry Potter in the flesh.” He moved over to the bed and set the cup on the nightstand beside it. “I brought you a cup of tea, just the way you like it.”

Draco’s gaze flicked from Harry to the cup. His evident confusion deepened.

“I can make you some breakfast, too,” Harry added.

Draco turned to face him directly, his eyes dwelling on him with uncomfortable intensity. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

“You’re in my home. I brought you here last night.” Harry took a cautious step closer to him. “Don’t you remember?”

Draco shrank back, shying away from him, then abruptly began to pace. He circled from the hearth to the bed and around its far side, always keeping as much distance as possible between himself and Harry, and tugging constantly at his sleeves.

“Do you really not remember anything?” Harry asked.

“I remember a party.”

Draco took a few more frantic steps, now scrubbing at his forearms, digging his fingers into the fabric of his shirt, as if trying to scrape something foul off his skin. When he turned into the light, Harry could see angry, red blotches on his throat and chest.

“You were there. In disguise. You… bought me.” His steps carried him to the foot of the bed, where he halted and clutched at the carved post for support. “Then you brought me here and Stunned me and drugged me and…”

His head came up. He fixed Harry with his dazed, glassy gaze, and his grip on the post tightened until his knuckles turned white.

“I hoped I was wrong… that it was just a… a dream.”

Harry felt his stomach turn over. He wanted to scream a denial, grab Draco, shake him, hold him, kiss and pet him until he took it all back. All he could do was stand there, his mouth too dry for speech, and wait for the next blow.

“So, wh-what now?” Draco asked, the catch in his voice betraying the fear behind his words. “What are you going to do with me?”

“Nothing!” Harry blurted out, then he thought better of it and amended, “I mean, I just want to look after you. Keep you safe. Let you heal and get your strength back.’’

“Can I go home?”

“You are home!”

A spasm of pain contorted Draco’s features, and something like fury blazed up in his eyes. He squelched it almost instantly, but not before Harry saw it and grasped that Draco’s obedience, his passivity, was just a veneer—a very thin veneer that could crack at any moment. He took another step closer to the other man, hands spread open to show his empty palms, and this time, Draco could not edge away. He could not let go of the bedpost.

“This is your home, as much as mine,” Harry insisted softly. “It always was. I’ve only been waiting for you to join me here.”

“Is that why you locked the door?”

Harry halted but kept his hands out in a placating gesture. “You can leave the room, if you want. Come down to the kitchen with me. Have something to eat.”

“I want to go home.”

“Draco, please…”

“Are you going to keep me locked up in here forever? Am I your prisoner?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Then take me back where I belong!” His voice cracked and sudden tears gleamed in his eyes, as the mask finally slipped. “Bloody hell, Harry! What do you want with me, anyway?!”

“I want to protect you!”

“From what?! You’re the one who’s hurting me! You’re the one who… _Fuck_ …” He dropped his forehead to rest against the massive bedpost, then drew back and slammed it into the wood, gasping, “ _Fuck, fuck, fuck…!_ ”

Harry leapt forward to catch his shoulders and pull him back. Draco uttered a tearing, wordless cry that was half agony, half rage, and slammed his head into the bedpost again. Echoing his cry, Harry grabbed his head in both hands and tucked it forcibly into the curve of his own neck.

“Stop it! You’ll hurt yourself!”

“Just do what you’re going to do!” Draco groaned, his body shaking with dry sobs. “I won’t fight you! I _won’t!_ Just do it and get it over with, please!”

“I’m not going to do anything to you. Shh.”

Harry cradled his head against his shoulder and petted his hair in an attempt at comfort, but Draco continued to sob and snarl, as if unaware who was holding him so protectively.

“Then let me go! If you don’t want me, _let me go!_ ”

“I can’t do that. It isn’t safe.” He stroked the hair back from Draco’s face and ran a hand down his back, feeling his ribcage heave on another tearing sob. “I won’t let you put yourself in danger.”

With an inarticulate cry, Draco wrenched himself away from Harry, and this time, he managed to stay on his feet without the support of the bedpost. He halted in the middle of the rug before the fireplace, bare feet planted wide, hair in a wild snarl around his face and shoulders, body trembling with pain and fury.

“What are you going to do? Stun me again? Tie me to the bed? Put me in a body-bind while you fuck me? Is _that_ your kink, Potter?!”

Before Harry could respond to this, Draco gave a breathless cry and crumpled to his knees. By the time Harry reached him, he was doubled over, both arms locked around his body, head bowed so that his hair spilled onto the floor. His ugly grunts of pain struck at Harry like fists and dragged an answering cry from him. Dropping to a crouch beside Draco, he put a tentative hand on his back, then pulled it away when the other man flinched.

“What hurts? What can I do?” he asked.

“Leave me alone. Leave… m-me…”

“I won’t touch you, if that’s what you want, but I can’t leave you like this.”

“ _What the fuck is the matter with you?!_ ” Draco lifted his head to glare at Harry, eyes spitting fury and teeth bared in an animal snarl. “You can have me! Have anything you want! Why won’t you just _take it_ and stop _torturing_ me?!”

His mouth dry with fear, Harry rocked back onto his heels and got to his feet. He didn’t recognize the thing glaring at him out of Draco’s familiar eyes. He knew it wasn’t Draco—wasn’t the man he had loved for so long—but it hurt him in ways he had never imagined to see it there. To know that his Draco was being eaten alive by it.

“I’m not trying to torture you,” he managed to choke out.

“You’re doing a fucking brilliant job of it!”

Harry backed toward the door, his wand in his hand again. “If you won’t let me help you, I’ll find someone else. Someone you’ll trust.”

Draco clambered awkwardly to his feet. He was still bent nearly double, barely able to stay upright, and to Harry’s horror, his cheeks were slick with tears. “Go ahead,” he panted, “stun me. Use the Cruciatus on me. It’ll be faster.”

Harry reached the door and paused with his hand on the latch. “I won’t use magic on you. I just want you to stay in here ’til I come back and… please don’t hurt yourself.”

“ _Fuck you!_ ”

Draco started for the door just as Harry slipped through it and slammed it in his face. Harry heard Draco’s body hit the door and flinched. There was a pause, then the smash and crunch of breaking china. Draco had thrown his teacup at the door.

With a muffled sob, Harry cast a fresh locking charm, then fled down the hall toward the sitting room that overlooked the street. It was his favorite space in the cottage—a bedroom that he had converted to a refuge of warmth and comfort—and the only room with a fireplace connected to the floo. Harry didn’t need warmth or comfort now, but he definitely needed that floo.

He had a fairly good idea what was wrong with Draco. He’d seen the lumps of sugar soaked in syrup and heard the screaming panic in Draco’s voice when he destroyed them. The problem wasn’t that he didn’t understand. The problem was that he didn’t have a fucking clue what to do about it.

And when Harry didn’t have a fucking clue, there was only one person to call.

The hearth was cold. Harry lit a fire with a single flick of his wand, then took a pinch of powder from the pot on the mantel and tossed it into the flames. They turned a vivid green.

Sticking his head into the flames, he called, “The Weasley cottage!”

The world spun around his ears for a moment. When it steadied down, he was looking into a familiar, shabby, cluttered room full of baby paraphernalia and Quidditch magazines. There was no one in it, and no sound came from the sleeping house around it.

“Hello? Hello!” Harry shouted. “Anyone awake?”

He knew he didn’t need to yell. The wards would alert them to the call, even if they were dead asleep, but he was too anxious to wait.

“Hey, guys, are you there?”

He heard distant footsteps and the sound of Ron cursing sleepily.

“Oi! It’s Harry!”

The footsteps drew nearer. Hermione’s voice called querulously, “All right, all right, I’m coming. Honestly…”

“Hermione!”

She appeared in the doorway, looking tired and harassed, in a fluffy blue dressing gown with a sleeping Rose cradled against her shoulder. Crossing to the hearth, she dropped to her knees in front of Harry’s disembodied head and gave him a frowning look with no welcome in it.

“Do you know what time it is?” she snapped.

“Of course I bloody well know.”

“Do you want Ronald? He’s in the…” she started, but Harry cut her off brusquely.

“No, I need you. Can you come through and bring your healing potions—anything you’ve got on hand?”

Her eyes widened. “Why do you need healing potions? What’s going on, Harry?”

“Just come through. I’ll explain everything.”

“I can’t leave Rose,” she protested.

“Bring her. _Please_ , Hermione!”

She shot a dubious glance over her shoulder, then looked at Harry again. “What should I tell Ron?”

“That I _need_ you! And I’m not coming into the Ministry for a while. Robards knows, but he may be shirty about it, so I need Ron to cover for me and keep that pillock out of my hair.”

Hermione answered this with her best fulminating, men-are-such-idiots glare, but she didn’t argue. Years of experience in dealing with Harry told her that it would be pointless. Instead, she got to her feet and backed toward the door, still speaking to Harry in the fireplace.

“I’ll need to get dressed and collect my things. And Rose will need feeding,” she added sternly.

“I’ll do it. Just get here as fast as you can. And _don’t_ let Ron come with you!”

“Hmph!” was all she said to that, thrown over her shoulder as she stomped away.

Harry pulled out of the fireplace and sucked in a calming breath.

Hermione would fix this. She would know what to do, as she always did. She would bring his dragon back to him and everything would be all right. Please, _Merlin_ , let it be all right!

 

Ten minutes later, Hermione stepped neatly out of Harry’s fireplace and thrust a fussing baby into his arms. She had a diaper bag slung over one shoulder and a black, leather potions case over the other, and she looked ready to do murder. Or, at the very least, to mind-ream Harry to get the truth.

He clutched Rose to his chest and grinned at his old friend in relief. “Thanks, Hermione! I’m sorry to drag you out of the house so early, but…”

“Save it,” she snapped. Crossing her arms over her chest in a familiar, mulish pose, she fixed him with a narrow gaze. “I want to know the truth. All of it. Then I want to feed my daughter and myself. Then, maybe, if I’m feeling magnanimous, I’ll do whatever it is you brought me here to do.”

Harry gulped and offered her a sheepish smile. Hermione in this mood terrified him. “Let’s go down to the kitchen. I can make your breakfast while we talk.”

“No.” She caught his arm to halt his move for the door. “I know you, Harry Potter, and I know when you’re in trouble. So spill it. What’s wrong?”

“I… it’s…”

“Harry,” she said warningly.

“You aren’t going to believe me.”

That earned him a snort and an eye-roll. “I always believe you, no matter what rubbish you spout.”

“No, you always refuse to believe me, then I prove that I’m right and you get annoyed with me. Remember the Deathly Hallows?”

“Oh. Well. If you’re going to go all the way back to the war…”

“I found Draco,” Harry said, all in a rush, before he lost his nerve or came up with another delaying tactic.

Hermione’s eyes widened. Her mouth fell open. After a breathless moment, she whispered, “What did you say?”

“I found Draco.” A smile tilted Harry’s lips at her look of utter shock. “I said you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Where…” She pulled her sagging jaw shut and swallowed. “Where is he?”

“Here.”

Her eyes widened another impossible notch. “Here? _In your house?_ ”

“Here in my house. In my bedroom, to be precise.”

“Oh, Harry,” she breathed, her hand clutching at his arm so tightly that the nails cut through his sleeve. “Harry, that’s _wonderful!_ ”

“Yeah, well, it is and it isn’t. He’s alive and he’s here, but he’s not exactly… himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s sick and weak—he’s been having a rough time of it—and he’s… he’s kind of off his head.”

“Are you saying he doesn’t know you?”

“Oh, he knows me, right enough,” Harry retorted, not quite able to keep the bitterness out of his voice, “but he doesn’t want anything to do with me. He’s very sick, in a lot of pain, but he won’t let me touch him. He just screams at me to let him go and to get away… it’s awful, ’Mione,” he whispered, tears thickening his voice in spite of his best efforts. “I just want to help him, but he won’t let me.”

Hermione gazed at him with huge, sad, tear-bright eyes. “What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to him. Examine him. Find out what’s wrong and give him something to calm him down or…”

“I’m not a healer, Harry.”

“But you had basic Healer training when you joined the Ministry. I remember.”

“That was just emergency live-saving measures—what to do if someone gets bitten or stung or gored. It’s required for anyone dealing with magical creatures. And it’s no more than you had in Auror training.”

“You’ve always been better at this stuff than me! Remember how you healed Ron when he got splinched? And how you fixed my hand after Umbridge’s detentions? _Please,_ Hermione! You’re my only hope!”

She continued to stare at him, biting her cheek, while Harry shifted from one foot to the other and Rose squirmed in his arms. Finally, at an imperious wail from her daughter, she sighed and huffed, “I never could say no to you.”

Harry broke out in a beaming smile that made her roll her eyes. “You’re the best, Hermione!”

“I’m a raving lunatic, but I’ll see what I can do. I can’t say more than that.” Slipping the diaper bag off her shoulder, she held it out to Harry. “You get Rose fed and make me some breakfast. I’ll talk to Malfoy.”

“Yes. Good. Just be careful and, whatever you do, don’t let him get hold of your wand. If you need me, send a Patronus, and I’ll apparate straight into the room.”

That earned him another eye-roll. “I conduct negotiations with _goblins_ , Harry. I think I can handle _Draco Malfoy._ ”

 

Harry ushered her to his bedroom door, removed the locking spell, then retreated to the kitchen before she opened it. There, he fed Rosie and got her happily settled on the floor to play with Abraxas. Then he whipped up a nice breakfast for Hermione, put it under a stasis charm to keep it fresh and, on the off chance he’d want it, made a plate for Draco, as well. Finally, he poured himself yet another cup of tea and sat down to wait.

He was working on his third or fourth cup and starting to feel as if he’d stuck his finger in a light socket, so wired and jumpy was he, when Hermione walked into the kitchen. His eyes tracked her, as she set her Potions case by the door and moved to take a chair across from him. Her face was drawn, her eyes grim, and her mouth hard with strain.

Harry slid her plate across the table to her and asked quietly, “How is he?”

“I’ve given him a Calming Draught. It took the edge off enough that we could talk, but it won’t last.” Her eyes dwelled on the plate with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, then lifted to Harry’s face. “He’s going to get worse before he gets better. Much worse.”

Harry nodded.

“He’s in the early stages of drug withdrawals.”

“I figured.”

“That’s what the aggression and restlessness are about. He tries to hide it—puts on that blank, meek look—but he can hardly stand to be in his own skin. I put some salve on his arms to stop him from scratching them raw.”

Harry nodded again and murmured a ‘thank you.’ Then he cleared his throat and asked, “How bad is it going to get?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what he’s using, or what kind of condition he was in before it started, though,” she grimaced slightly, “I can take a guess at that.”

“So can I.” Harry spun his cup on its saucer, watching the milky liquid swirl in it, then he ventured, “If you knew what drug he was using, could you make it easier for him?”

“I’m not a healer, Harry. I’m not equipped to treat a person in Malfoy’s condition.”

“But you could help. Tell _me_ how to help.”

“If you really want to help, you’ll take him to St. Mungo’s.”

Harry shook his head firmly. “I can’t do that.”

“This is _serious_ , Harry! It’s no time to play the hero!”

“ _I’m not playing!_ ” She shut her mouth with a snap and fixed reproachful eyes on him, but Harry did not back down. “This isn’t about me and my Hero complex, or you proving you’re so much smarter than the rest of us, Hermione! This is about _Draco!_ About keeping him out of prison! About keeping him _alive!_ ”

“That’s what I’m trying to do! He needs proper care, a safe environment, potions to control the symptoms…”

“So, get him the potions.”

“How? Where? For about the hundredth time, Harry, _I’m not a healer!_ ”

“No, but you know half the healers in St. Mungo’s, along with every reputable potioneer in Wizarding Britain! Nobody has more friends than you do, Hermione! One of them must be able to give us what we need!”

“Oh, I have friends, all right,” she shot back. “Friends who would lose their jobs if they were caught handing restricted potions to an untrained, unlicensed civilian! Friends who wouldn’t be my friends anymore, if I used them that way!”

“Then do the research and _I’ll_ find the potions! Look in one of the six million books you’ve got piled in your office and figure out what we need. I’ll brew it myself, or go to Knockturn Alley and buy it on the Black Market. I don’t care how we get it, we just need to _get it_ , before Draco is so sick that we can’t help him!”

Hermione clamped her lips shut and stared at Harry through a sheen of angry tears. Finally she said, in a tight, suffocated voice, “I can’t research his symptoms if I don’t know what drug we’re dealing with.”

Harry heard the first whispers of surrender in her words and let relief wash through him. “I didn’t get much of a look before I blasted it, but I can tell you that it was purple,” he said eagerly.

Hermione’s brows shot up. “Purple?”

“Yeah. This kind of muddy-looking, sticky, purple goop poured over sugar.”

A hand crept up to her mouth. “Oh, Harry. Oh, no.”

“What? What is it?”

“Syrup of Poppies.”

“Poppies… like opium?”

“Not _like_ opium. _Pure_ opium. Or as close as you can get.” She collected herself, visibly swallowing down her distress and struggling for her usual know-it-all manner. “Syrup of Poppies is brewed for use in potions. It’s highly concentrated, _extremely_ dangerous when used improperly, and strictly regulated by International Wizarding Law. It’s never meant to be used in its pure form, only a few drops at a time, diluted with other ingredients, because it’s so powerful. If Draco has been eating the pure syrup…” she trailed off.

He was killing himself. That’s what she couldn’t say but Harry heard, loud and clear, in her silence.

“How can you be sure that’s what it is?” he demanded, hoping against hope that Hermione could actually be wrong for once.

“The color. Syrup of Poppies is dyed purple, after it’s inspected by Ministry regulators. That way, the potioneer can prove they bought it legally. It also turns the potions purple, as a warning to customers that they contain a possibly toxic ingredient.”

“So, you’re saying that Draco has been poisoning himself.”

“Yes.” Her voice was soft and serious, the teacher giving way to the worried friend once more. “He may not realize it, but…”

“He does.” Harry swallowed convulsively and stared down at his clasped hands, blinking hard to hold back his burning tears. “Will the withdrawals kill him?”

“I don’t know. Opium withdrawals aren’t usually dangerous, but considering what he’s been taking and how thin he is… how ill…” Like Harry, she blinked back her tears, then she lifted a wide, wounded gaze to Harry’s face and asked, very quietly, “Where did you find him?”

“A brothel in Knockturn Alley.”

She flinched. Her lips began to tremble. “That explains a lot.”

“He probably told you that he wants to leave, but I won’t let him go.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why. I won’t let him go back to that place. To that _man_.”

“Nero?” she ventured, softly.

Harry grimaced and nodded.

“Harry. My dear.” She reached across the table to clasp his hand. “What are you going to do?”

“Keep him here, where he’s safe,” Harry replied as if the answer were obvious. “Get his name cleared by the Wizengamot. Get him his family fortune back, if I can, but that’s not so important. He’s got me, and I’ve got more money than I know what to do with, so…”

“You can’t hold him here against his will, Harry.”

Harry’s head came up with a snap. He could feel tears gathering in his eyes again, but he ignored them. “Yes, I can. I have to, at least until he remembers…”

Hermione’s hand tightened on his for a moment, then let him go. She sat back and fixed him with a soft, sad look. “He does remember, just not the same way you do.”

“He’s confused. Frightened. When he’s feeling better and the drugs are out of his system, he’ll be able to think more clearly. Then he’ll stop fighting me.”

“He said that you bought him.”

The words, gentle as they were, struck Harry a physical blow. He jerked back in his chair with a hiss and cried, “No! I mean… not the way you’re thinking!”

“You paid this Nero person money to get into his room.”

“Only because I had to! So I could talk to him! I would never, _never_ use him like a… a…”

“He’s a prostitute, Harry, and you paid for his time.”

“ _Stop saying that!_ ”

How many times had he said those very words in the last twelve hours? How many things was he refusing to hear?

“That’s how Draco remembers it, and he’s right. Isn’t he?” Hermione insisted in her gentle, implacable way.

“Yes! All right? Yes, I paid for him! I gave that fat fuck Nero a pile of gold—Seamus’ gold, actually—so I could spend an hour with the man I’ve wanted and searched for and _loved_ for three fucking years! Okay?”

“It’s not okay,” Hermione said. “Not to him. Not when you forced him to come here, hexed him, drugged him, locked him in a room.” She hesitated, then added, her voice thickening, “ _Kissed_ him and touched him and made him believe that you’d let him go if he only… gave himself to you.”

“ _No!_ ” Harry clamped his hands over his ears too late to muffle her terrible words. “It wasn’t like that!”

“It was to Draco.” She grabbed his arm again, tugged on it, forced his hand down. Then she pleaded, “Listen to me, Harry! _Listen!_ You can’t treat him this way! Not if you ever want him to trust you again!”

“Like what? Like I _love him?_ ”

“Like you own him.”

“ _I’d never do that!_ ”

“No?” She raised a sceptical brow at him. “Did he ask you to bring him here? To lock him in your bedroom? To stun him when he tried to leave and drug him so he wouldn’t struggle? Have you actually done _one, single thing_ that he asked you to do?”

“I…” He broke off, flabbergasted by her accusatory look.

“Even a whore has the right to say no,” she said in a hard voice. “Did you listen when he said it?”

“ _I’m trying to help him!_ ”

“The man has been _abused,_ Harry. You know it’s true. He’s been _brutalized_ , and not just by this Nero of his, because there’s no way in _fucking hell_ that Draco Malfoy would do this to himself, would put himself in that creature’s hands, if he hadn’t been driven to it by things too horrible to think about!”

“I know it,” Harry whispered.

“Then act like you know it, instead dragging him off to your cave by the hair, like he was a fucking trophy!”

Just the fact that Hermione would use such language knocked the wind out of Harry. “That’s not…”

“He believes that you bought him for your own pleasure,” she went on relentlessly, ignoring his protest. “He believes he has no right to deny you and no say in what happens to him. If you want him to trust you again, to _love_ you again, you have to convince him that he’s wrong. And if you can’t even unlock his door for fear he’ll run away, that’s going to be very hard to do.”

The fight abruptly drained out of Harry, leaving him limp in his chair. He stared at Hermione, so full of pain and confusion that he didn’t even know where to start.

Of course she was right. Hermione was always right. But how could he have missed it? He, who knew Draco and what he had suffered so much better than anyone else? How could he have been so _stupid?_ And what was he supposed to do, now?

“I’m sorry,” he finally said. It was useless, but it was all he could think to say. He was so incredibly, unbelievably sorry…

Hermione, bless her, immediately got out of her chair and circled the table to take him in her arms. Pulling his head to her midriff, she combed her fingers through his hair and murmured to him, as softly as if she were talking to Rose, “I know you are. So am I, Harry. I love him, too, and I don’t want to see either of you hurting this way.”

“What can I do?” Harry mumbled into her robe. “I really can’t let him go. Not to Azkaban, and not back to that place. So how do I fix it?”

“I’m not sure that you can.”

“I have to try.” For the first time, his words came out pleading, instead of defiant.

“All right.” Her hands stilled and she pushed him back to look into his eyes. “Let’s start with this. I’ll talk to some people, get some advice on how to nurse him through the withdrawals. You stay here and look after him, but _carefully_ , Harry. _Respectfully_. That means, take him at his word. Respect his boundaries. If he asks for help, you give it to him, but if he asks you to leave him alone, you leave him alone. And don’t fall for that whole submissive thing he does, which is so wrong on so many levels that I don’t even know where to start! Ask him what he wants, then _do_ _it_. Understand?”

Harry gulped and nodded. This was going to be tough, especially if Draco got as sick as Hermione had predicted.

“Most of all, _no sex._ I mean it, Harry. No touching, no petting, no cuddling up to him in bed. And no kissing! Just leave the man alone, and _don’t touch him_ unless he looks you square in the face and asks you to!”

“But…” he began, only to meet Hermione’s quelling glare.

“I mean it. Give the man a break, for Merlin’s sake! Show him that there’s one person in his life who won’t use him as a- a _fuck toy_ and toss him back on the garbage heap!”

“Hermione!” Harry protested, genuinely shocked, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

“Sorry.” She quirked a smile at him, a faint flush staining her cheeks. “My righteous indignation got the better of me. It happens.”

“A lot.”

“Pffft!” She gave him an affectionate shove. “Look who’s talking, oh Chosen One. Riding into battle for your beloved, with banners snapping and sunlight glinting off your armor.”

“ _Please,_ ” Harry groaned.

“Well, I’m right about the first part.” Her eyes softened, crinkled at the corners when she smiled. “It’s good to see you primed for battle again. I’ve missed it.”

Harry sighed, his humor evaporating. “I may already have lost this one. The way I’ve treated Draco…”

“Oh, Harry. He’ll forgive you. How could he not? He loves you as ridiculously as you love him.”

Harry let his breath out in a huff and wrapped both arms tightly around her, burying his face in her robe. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, yet. I haven’t done anything but lecture you.”

“You came when I called. You skipped breakfast and rushed over here to help me. And you care what happens to him. That means more than anything.”

“Honestly, Harry, of course I do,” she said tartly. “Oh, by the way, I did some basic scans on him, just to check for injury or diseases, and they came back clean.”

Harry lifted his head without loosening his hold on her. “What does that mean? He’s healthy?”

“Far from it, but he doesn’t have any identifiable diseases, including STDs,” she added significantly.

“Oh.” Harry digested that. “ _Oh._ ”

“Yes, _oh_. Apparently, no matter how careless he might be about other things, he hasn’t been careless with his protection charms.”

“If he really wanted to kill himself, do you think he’d worry about a dose of the clap?”

Hermione chuckled at that. “Maybe his instinct for self-preservation hasn’t completely deserted him.”

“That’s good.”

“Very good.”

Harry grinned and bounded to his feet, letting a faint breath of hope blow away some of his gloom. Giving Hermione a peck on the cheek, he ushered her toward the blanket where Rose lay, gurgling and cooing at an unimpressed Abraxas. “You’re brilliant, Hermione. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d never have made it through your first year at Hogwarts. Now I have to get home to my equally gormless husband and a mountain of housework.”

He scooped up Rose and tucked her against his shoulder, while Hermione collected her potions various bags.

“And a spot of potions research?”

“That, too. Lucky for me there are thirty-six hours in a day.”

Harry just smiled crookedly at that, kissed her on the head, and started down the hallway toward the stairs and the floo.

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	7. Traces of Draco

****“Here. Drink this.”

Cold glass touched his lips. Draco grunted a protest and turned away, his stomach heaving. In the next breath, he was curled up in a tight knot, retching violently, his body afire with pain. Bile seared his throat, soured his mouth, trickled from between his lips to soak the hair tangled beneath his cheek.

“ _Oh, fuck_ ,” he moaned.

“The potion will settle your stomach.” He knew that voice, loathing and longing for it in equal measure. “I swear that’s all it does. Just drink it.”

“Can’t,” he choked out, gagging on another heave of his stomach at the very thought of putting anything in it.

“Take it slowly, just a sip at a time. Let it work.” The voice hesitated, then added wistfully, “Please try.”

“Mmm.”

Draco twisted onto his back and cracked open his eyes. He could see a blurry figure standing over him, a familiar corona of messy hair around its head. He blinked to bring the face into focus.

Potter. Not Harry, _Potter_.

 _Potter_ kept him at a distance. _Potter_ reminded Draco why he was here and gave him the strength to resist the pull of the man. Harry was his lover. Potter was his jailer.

Potter sat down on the edge of the mattress and held out a glass half full of clear liquid. “It’s more of Hermione’s potion. She gave you some earlier, remember?”

Draco vaguely remembered Granger sitting on his bed, smiling, patting his shoulder and handing him a glass just like that one. It had helped. It had soothed the cramping in his stomach and the dryness of his mouth. But that had been before… Before his bones turned to jelly and his blood to fire. Before his body tried to turn itself inside-out to escape the horror creeping through it. There was no way in bleeding Hell he’d keep it down, now.

Potter couldn’t smell and taste the horror. He couldn’t feel it seeping up under Draco’s skin, turning it black and foul, or oozing into his guts and making them writhe. He just sat there, gazing at Draco through his crooked glasses, holding out the potion and looking like a schoolboy begging his father for a treat.

Draco pried one hand loose from its clutch on his ribcage and reached for the glass. His fingers slipped on the slick surface, fumbled for it, then dropped to knot themselves in the blanket, as a wave of shuddering agony took him.

“Nngh!” His body contracted, knees lifting and shoulders rolling up, then he twisted onto his side again and began to retch.

“Okay.” Potter laid a hesitant hand on his back—just rested it there, not moving, warming him through the thin cotton of his shirt—and murmured, “You’ll be okay. Just ride it out.”

“F-fuck…” Draco gasped, as more bile spilled from his mouth. That was all he had in him, but his stomach didn’t get the message that there was nothing left to sick up. “Fucking kill me…”

“Shh. I know that sounds like a good idea right now, but this is the very worst of it. You’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

Draco uttered a wordless sob in answer and wilted into the mattress, as the bout of cramping slowly eased.

He was utterly exhausted, his body unstrung, his mind huddled in a shocked and shivering mass at the back of his skull. Every inch of him hurt, every breath was a labor. His skin was slick with sweat, too filthy to bear, his face and hair wet with sick, the clothing on his body and the sheets covering him so rank with his bodily fluids that the smell alone was enough to make him vomit. He could feel tears of weakness and disgust on his cheeks but couldn’t muster enough pride to care. He could only lie there and hurt, wishing to every god ever dreamed up by Wizarding kind that they would just take him. Get him out of this hell, even if it meant an eternity in another, hotter one.

“Do you want the potion, Draco?” Potter asked. His voice was soft and uncertain, and it sounded utterly wrong coming out of Harry Potter.

“Mm. Can’t do it,” he muttered without opening his eyes.

“I’ll help you, but only if that’s what you want.”

“Mm,” Draco mumbled again. He dragged his eyes open and swiveled them to find Potter leaning anxiously over him. Even that slight movement hurt so much that it forced fresh tears from between his lashes.

“Okay, turn over. Gently,” Potter urged, as he caught Draco’s shoulder and guided it back onto the mattress.

Draco turned under his hand, shifting onto his back, settling his head in the pillow. Potter slipped his free hand behind his neck to lift him, and Draco grunted in pain.

“Here you go.” The glass touched his lips again, and this time, Draco parted them. “One sip.”

Cold liquid trickled into his mouth, onto his parched tongue. Draco swallowed reflexively and felt his throat contract in protest. He whimpered—a pathetic sound that ought to have filled him with shame—and clamped his mouth shut. Potter pulled the glass away.

“Easy. Breathe easy. Try not to sick it up.”

Draco took a few shaking breaths, felt the nausea ease, and finally nodded at Potter. He brought the glass back and offered Draco another sip. By the fourth one, Draco could feel the potion taking effect. His muscles slowly loosened, letting him relax into the mattress. The hideous cramping in his stomach gave way to a slack, empty feeling, as if his innards had been stripped out and scoured clean. Head spinning, weak with relief, he uttered a little sob and fell back limply against the support of Potter’s hand.

“Drink it down,” Potter murmured, the glass still resting against Draco’s lips.

Draco obediently opened his mouth and swallowed the rest of the potion in two gulps. Potter immediately took his hand away.

“I won’t suggest you eat anything solid, but would you like some water?”

“Nngh-yes.” He hesitated, then whispered soundlessly, “Please.”

Potter just lifted an eyebrow at this courtesy, his face impassive. Getting to his feet, he moved out of Draco’s limited field of vision, then returned a minute later with the glass filled once more. This time, he used magic to hoist Draco away from the pillow and stuffed a few more of them behind his shoulders. Then, when Draco was half-sitting against a pile of down, he held out the glass to him.

Draco took the glass in one nerveless hand and felt a deft surge of magic steady it when it nearly slipped from his fingers. He cast Potter a look from beneath his lashes but said nothing. The water was cool and soothing—so welcome in his dry, sour, foul-tasting mouth and flayed throat that it nearly brought him to tears again. He emptied the glass and, still bolstered by that subtle magic, handed it back.

“More?”

He shook his head and closed his eyes.

“Do you need anything else?”

Draco pondered this for a moment. He could think of a whole list of things he’d like to have, starting with a sharp blow to the head to knock him unconscious for the duration of this nightmare, but he didn’t dare ask for any of them. Potter was being suspiciously helpful—calm, gentle, undemanding, completely unlike himself—and Draco was afraid that a rash word on his part would trigger another bout of overbearing possessiveness. But there was one thing he needed urgently, if he wasn’t going to totally humiliate himself.

“Toilet,” he finally said through clenched teeth.

“Umm, okay…”

Shifting his elbows under himself, Draco managed to lever his shoulders away from the pillows. Potter caught him by the arm and helped him sit up, then kept a hand on his arm to steady him while his head swam sickeningly.

“Can you walk?”

Draco grunted and nodded, head down, eyes fixed on the floor as he tried to kick his legs free of the blankets. The movement made his heart pound, his joints ache, his stomach writhe, but he gritted his teeth and kept at it until he had his legs over the side of the bed and his feet on the floor. Then he looked up at Potter through a screen of filthy hair, a request in his eyes that he couldn’t voice.

Potter just held out his hand.

Somewhere in the back of his head, Draco was weeping with gratitude as he caught Potter’s hand and let him pull him to his feet. He didn’t show it in his face. He kept his eyes on the floor and his jaw set, determined to make it as far as the bathroom without breaking into a million sobbing pieces, as he staggered toward the beckoning doorway.

Potter guided him across the room, taking most of his weight on his arm, but tactfully kept his magic and his opinions in check. Draco was halfway to his goal when a fresh bout of nausea took him. He lurched to a stop, clutching at Potter’s arm, and doubled over in pain. A strangled cry rose in his throat, followed by a gush of acid-laced water. It spurted from between his clenched teeth to soak his hair and shirt, splatter Potter’s jeans, and pool on the floor.

Draco groaned in misery, still shaking, but as much with embarrassment as pain.

“Don’t worry about it. I can clean it up,” Potter said.

“I c-can’t go fast enough!” Draco gasped.

Potter hesitated for a beat, then asked, “Can I use magic?”

Draco nodded, too desperate to worry about the other man taking liberties. In the next instant, he felt his body go weightless, and Potter had him cradled in his arms. He groaned again, dropped his head to Potter’s shoulder, and shut his eyes to block out the sight of himself being carried like a child.

A few strides brought them into the bathroom, where Potter let Draco’s legs fall and his feet touch the floor. Draco opened his eyes. They were standing right next to the toilet. Potter flipped up the lid, then lowered Draco carefully down onto the seat.

“Do you want my help in here, or…?”

Draco shook his head. “Go.”

To his faint surprise, Potter didn’t argue. He merely edged toward the door, his worried gaze still on Draco. “I’ll be out here. Call if you need anything.”

Then he was gone, and Draco was alone.

 

It was half an hour later when Draco finally dragged himself to the open doorway and peered into the bedroom. Part of him had assumed that Potter would not be able to control himself, that he would barge in and demand to help or, at the very least, call out for reassurance that Draco was still alive every few minutes. That part of him was relieved—or disappointed, perhaps—to learn that the man had more discipline than he’d given him credit for. He could hear Potter clunking and clattering about in the other room, but not a word or a footstep approaching the bathroom until Draco appeared in the doorway.

The instant he stuck his head around the jamb, Potter set down the tray of potions he carried and hurried over to him. He stuck out his arm without a word, a question in his frank, green eyes. Draco hesitated for a bare moment, then took the offered arm. He made it all the way to the freshly-made bed without stumbling or vomiting, largely thanks to Potter’s support, and crawled onto the mattress with a sigh of relief.

“Okay?” Potter asked. “Potion still working?”

Draco nodded, eyes closed as he waited for the room to steady down. A whiff of the pillowcase he lay against made him raise his brows. “Did you change the bed?”

“With my own, two hands.”

“Hm,” he grunted, “you need a house-elf.”

Potter didn’t answer, and the sudden silence made Draco’s guts clench with alarm. He lifted his head and turned wary eyes on the other man. Potter was just standing there, his mouth half open and his brows up under his fringe, staring at Draco but clearly not seeing him.

“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered, “I didn’t mean…”

“What?” Potter snapped back into focus, a smile lighting his tired face. “Don’t be a prat. You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

“I said something to…” he ventured, but Potter cut him off with a chuckle.

“You just reminded me that I _have_ a house-elf. Well, not really, since I freed him right after the war, but Kreacher never cared much for freedom. I’ll bet he’d love to have a real Black to fuss over again!”

Draco wanted to ask who Kreacher was, to demand that Potter stop babbling and explain himself, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he climbed between the clean sheets and rested his pounding head back against the pillow. Potter plunked down on the mattress next to him with a touch of his old carelessness. He yawned hugely. Then he scrubbed his fingers through his ridiculous hair.

It almost made Draco smile. It almost undid the aching knot of sorrow in his chest. It almost made him stretch out his hand to the other man and murmur his name for the sheer pleasure of tasting it in his mouth. Almost, but not quite.

He closed his eyes again, and in this brief moment of quiet, he could feel Potter’s eyes on his face and Potter’s longing reach out for him.

“Can I get you anything?”

Draco grunted a negative.

“Hermione brought more potions. There’s the one for nausea, one for pain, and one to keep your electrolytes in balance…”

“What?” Draco asked, eyes slitting open, before he could check himself.

It was so hard to think of Harry—of _Potter_ —as another buyer, another owner that he had to appease and obey if he wanted to survive. His impulse was to question, to demand, to challenge. Or to throw himself into his arms, which was the most seductive and the most dangerous impulse of all.

He bit his tongue and turned his face away, hoping Potter hadn’t heard the querulous note in his voice.

But Potter didn’t sound angry. He answered easily, “It just means to keep you healthy when you’re sicking up all the time and not eating or drinking regularly.” He got to his feet. “I’ll leave the nausea potion here on the nightstand. It’s all measured out and mixed with water. All you have to do is drink it. I’ll be back soon, but if you need anything—anything, Draco, really—all you have to do is shout. I’ve set a charm so I’ll hear you. Okay?”

Draco grunted in reply.

“Okay, then. Try to rest while you can.”

Those words weren’t ominous. No. Not the least, little bit.

With a soft, self-pitying groan, Draco rolled onto his side and curled up in a protective ball. His stomach cramped briefly, warning him that this nightmare was a long way from over, and he pulled the pillow over his head to block out the world.

If only he could sleep. Or die. Either would do.

 

* * *

 

Harry closed the door, putting a silent locking spell on it, then he sagged back against the wall and drew in a shaking breath. That had been close! _So_ close! It had taken every ounce of strength he possessed not to touch Draco, to take his hand, to stroke his hair and kiss away the frown line between his brows!

It had been hard enough when he’d carried the other man in his arms. But far worse were those small, subtle hints of thawing, when Draco’s voice warmed and sharpened, and his body unclenched. There had been a moment—just the tiniest moment—when Harry had felt as if he had his dragon back. He’d let himself go in response. Dropped down onto the bed beside him. Laughed and joked.

Only Hermione’s stern voice in his head had gotten him out of the room without doing something supremely stupid, but he had made it. He’d kept his promise. Now, thanks to Draco, he had a brilliant idea and a way to armor himself against future temptation.

Bounding down the stairs, Harry ran into the kitchen, calling, “Kreacher! Kreacher, can I talk to you?”

With an ear-splitting _crack_ , Kreacher appeared in front of Harry and bowed until his snout-like nose touched his knees. “Master has need of Kreacher?”

“Don’t call me that, Kreacher,” Harry said tiredly. “You know I’m not your master anymore.”

“Kreacher has always served his Family nobly and always will. No clothing forced upon him can make Kreacher stop.”

“Yeah, but… oh, never mind. Stop that bowing, would you?”

Kreacher straightened up and gave Harry a sour look. The house-elf had changed little in the years Harry had known him, perhaps because he was already so ancient, decrepit and miserable that time could have little effect on him. He had resigned himself to serving the half-blood, Muggle-loving, utterly unworthy Harry Potter during the war and had, at one time, been positively cheerful about it. He had lost some of his enthusiasm when Harry sent him to work at Hogwarts, but not so much that he ever refused a request or stopped calling Harry ‘Master.’

He hadn’t changed physically, either. He now wore the Hogwarts uniform instead of a rancid towel around his loins, but he managed to make his crisp, white shorts and shirt look as saggy and grey and threadbare as his old towel. He was clean, he was orderly, he was obedient, but he was still Kreacher. He exasperated Harry by his mere presence.

Today, however, Harry had real need of him and refused to let the house-elf’s mood affect his. “I have a favor to ask you, Kreacher.”

“Master need only speak and Kreacher will obey,” Kreacher croaked, bowing again in deliberate provocation.

“No, I’m not giving you an order. I want to be very clear about that. If you don’t want to help me, I won’t try to force you and you _will not_ have to punish yourself! But I could really use your help.”

Somehow, the elf managed to look even more lugubrious than usual. “What is it that Master Harry wants? Kreacher has duties at Hogwarts and his former mistress’ house to care for. He is very busy, yes, very busy indeed.”

“Too busy to serve a member of his family?” Harry asked, a touch of dryness in his voice.

Kreacher’s drooping ears came up sharply. “A member of Kreacher’s family? There is only one…”

Harry nodded, a smile tugging at his lips.

“The Malfoy boy?” His croaking voice grew louder, his eyes wider and brighter with every passing moment. “The pure-blood great-nephew of my former mistress? The sole surviving heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black?”

“That’s the one.”

“Draco Malfoy is here in Master Harry’s house?”

“Asleep in Master Harry’s bed, as a matter of fact. He’s very ill and needs constant care. I’ve been doing it myself, but I could use some help. And I’m sure Draco would be glad to have such a faithful family servant looking after him.”

Harry was a little alarmed to see tears starting in Kreacher’s huge, bloodshot eyes. “Master Harry wants Kreacher to care for the last heir of the Noble and Most Ancient…”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry said brusquely, cutting him off. Much as he loved Draco and wanted to help him, he had only so much patience with Kreacher’s weird combination of snobbery and subservience. “If you can stop calling him that.”

The elf bowed, lower than before, and croaked, “Kreacher would be honored to obey Master Harry in this!”

“It’s not an… Oh, never mind. And stop with the bowing, already!”

 

*** *** ***

 

Harry had barely sunk into his first real sleep in days when the wards tingled toannounce a visitor. He instinctively reached for his wand and rolled off the bed, stumbling out of the guest room before he was fully awake. With a muttered curse, he started down the hallway in his stockinged feet toward the floo. Then he heard Hermione’s voice speaking to…

“Ron?” he mumbled, as he padded into the sitting room.

Ron had clearly been hissing something at his annoyed wife, but at the sound of Harry’s voice, he glanced over at him. His scowl deepened and his brows scaled up his forehead. “You look like shite.”

“Yeah, well, you woke me up. What’re you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? You’re seriously asking me that?”

“I tried to stop him, Harry,” Hermione cut in. “I told him it wasn’t a good time…”

“ _Not a good time?_ ” Ron fairly screeched. “One of my best mates—a man who’s been _dead_ for the last three years—shows up out of nowhere! My other best mate is hiding him out in his bleeding bedroom! My own _wife_ is sneaking over here to play healer for him! And it’s _not a good time_ for me to drop by?!”

“Look, Ron,” Harry tried, but Ron was having none of it.

“You didn’t think that maybe I’d be as worried about him as you are? That maybe I’d want to see him? Say hello? Welcome him back from the _fucking dead?!_ ”

“You can’t,” Harry said tiredly. “He’s asleep.”

“So, I’ll sit with him ’til he wakes up, _then_ I’ll say hello.”

“Ron, please,” Hermione urged, “you don’t want to push this.”

“What I want is to see for myself that Ferret is alive. Is that so hard to grasp?”

“No.” Harry put a hand on Ron’s arm and drew him toward the door. “I get it. But this really isn’t a good time. Let’s go down to the kitchen and have a cup of tea. I think we all need one.”

Ron grumbled something sour under his breath, but he let Harry propel him down the stairs and into the kitchen. As they stepped through the door, it struck Harry how different the room looked since the last time he’d been in it—since forever, actually—thanks to Kreacher. The house-elf had polished every surface ’til it shone, then filled the stovetop with steaming, bubbling pots and the counter with plates under stasis charms. A fire crackled merrily on the hearth and the smell of fresh baking filled the air. The whole place glowed with warmth and welcome.

From behind him, Harry heard Hermione suck in her breath. “Oh, my! When did you have time to do all this?”

“I didn’t.”

Harry circled the table and dropped into a chair. Kreacher had left a china teapot and a few cups on the table next to a plate of chocolate shortbread. Harry grabbed a biscuit and took a hungry bite. It felt like he hadn’t eaten in a week.

“It’s all down to Kreacher,” he said through a large, crumbly mouthful.

“Kreacher!”

That set off a firestorm of questions and demands from both Ron and Hermione that forced Harry to wake up properly and talk to them. He explained as patiently as he could how he’d come to enlist Kreacher’s help and all that the house-elf had done since. Ron was duly impressed with his ingenuity. Hermione was dubious about forcing Kreacher into the role of nursemaid. Harry pointed out that _he_ was acting as a nursemaid and he could sodding well use the help. Besides, Kreacher wanted to do it.

“He’s the worst kind of snob,” he reminded her. “He practically got down and kissed my feet when I told him he could nurse the _sole surviving heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black!_ Trust me, Hermione, he does not feel put-upon. If anything, this is the first time he’s willingly followed my orders since I moved out of Grimmauld Place.”

“He shouldn’t be following _any_ orders since you freed him…”

“Save it, Hermione,” Ron cut in. “The little git doesn’t want to be free. And he adores every bleach-blond hair on Malfoy’s head. He’s probably in Heaven right now.”

“He is,” Harry said tersely, “and so was I ’til you woke me up. Seriously, Ron, can’t this wait?”

“No. It can’t.” Ron poured himself a cup of tea and dumped four teaspoons of sugar into it. “I’ve tried to be patient, mate. I really have. But enough is enough. I want to see Ferret.”

“You don’t.” At Ron’s scowling look, he sighed and said, “Trust me, you really don’t. Kreacher’s looking after him and that makes both of them happy, so let them be.”

“Is he any better?” Hermione asked softly.

Harry shrugged uncomfortably.

The truth was that he thought Draco might be through the worst of the withdrawals. He’d kept down two doses of the anti-nausea potion and slept for most of the last eight hours. But even though he wasn’t sicking up all over the place or curled into a fetal position with pain, he was still terribly ill, weak and vulnerable. He didn’t need a parade of visitors, no matter how well-meaning, and Ron didn’t need to see his friend in this condition.

“The symptoms should be easing soon,” she murmured.

“Yeah.” Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair and frowned. “It’s just hard to tell. He won’t tell me how he’s feeling, and he looks so… it’s just hard. That’s all.”

“If he’s that ill, are you sure it’s a good idea to leave him with Kreacher?” Ron asked. “Only, that elf is kind of ancient. And grumpy. And a ruddy awful house-elf, if we’re being honest.”

“Oh, Ron, he isn’t!” Hermione protested.

“He is. Remember what he was like at Grimmauld Place?”

“He was unhappy, that’s all. Once he decided that he liked serving Harry…” She broke off, realizing what she’d said, and flushed a deep crimson. “Erm…”

Ron chuckled, some of his sour temper evaporating at this rare chance to see his wife discomposed.

“I trust Kreacher implicitly,” Harry assured them firmly. “He’s devoted to Draco and has loads of useful magic. He can change the bed by snapping his fingers, move Draco around without touching him...”

“You can do that,” Ron objected.

“Not as quickly and easily as Kreacher. Besides, Draco trusts him.”

“More than he trusts _you?_ ”

Harry felt the discomfort crawl up his spine again. “For now. For this. Yes.”

Ron eyed him narrowly but didn’t push. “So, you’re really not going to let me see him,” he finally said.

“No.”

“Then give me some way to help.” Harry looked up sharply, his mouth falling open. “Bleeding hell, mate, you trust Kreacher to help Ferret, but you don’t trust _me?_ ”

“Of course I trust you! I just… I don’t know…”

“There has to be something I can do.” 

“If you really want to help, keep Robards out of my hair. And tell Nev… Oh, _fuck!_ ” Harry jerked upright in his chair, horror flooding him.

“What?” Ron demanded.

“The wedding! I’m supposed to be at Neville’s wedding! What day is it?”

“Tuesday. You’ve already missed it.”

He crumpled over to bury head in his hands, wailing, “ _Noooo!_ Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ Neville’s going to murder me!”

Hermione patted him consolingly. “Neville’s fine. He saw Malfoy at the club, remember? He understands why you couldn’t make it.”

“It’s not Neville you have to worry about, mate,” Ron put in, “it’s his lady wife.”

“Hannah,” Harry groaned. “I am _so_ dead!”

“She’s distracted right now, with the honeymoon and all, but when they get back… Yeah. You’re dead.”

Collecting himself, Harry straightened up and took a moment to think.

Neville had seen Draco at the club, so he knew why Harry had gone to ground, but what about the others? Seamus and Dean and Montague? Half the Aurors in his department? They had written off the mysterious Colin as a Malfoy lookalike, refusing to believe that he could be the real thing. Had they begun to suspect the truth? Had Neville’s Confundus charm worn off and let them remember Harry’s odd behavior? Had word got round that the supposed bridegroom had bought his way into Colin’s room, then apparated out of the club with him? And how had Nero reacted to the kidnapping of his star attraction?

Just how much refuse had hit the fan, while Harry was too busy to notice? Just how fucked were they?

“Ummm…” Ron and Hermione both gave him concerned looks. “Were you serious about wanting to help?”

 

*** *** ***

 

Hermione stared at the gaping hole in the wall with her mouth hanging ludicrously open.

The drudge beside her chuckled. “’Is Nibs done that.”

“Nero? Why?”

She shrugged a bony shoulder and fixed Hermione with one of her divergent eyes. “’Ad to get in, di’n’t ’e? The bloke wot nicked Colin took the door wif ’im, too.”

Hermione exchanged a speaking glance with Ron. He raised his eyebrows and tried to smother a grin. Trust Harry to disappear a door and forget to put it back.

The drudge—Jewel, she’d called herself, though anything less like a precious gem would be hard to find—waved one claw-like hand at the hole and said, “Go on, then. Tha’s Col’s room.”

Ron ducked through the ragged opening and into the room beyond. Hermione could see the tension in his face even through the charm that transformed his features. He didn’t look like Ronald Weasley, whose face was far too recognizable for this illicit adventure, but he reacted like him.

Turning back to Jewel, Hermione tried for a convincing blend of authority and kindness. “My partner will search this room. I’d like to see his bedroom.”

Jewel looked blankly at her, so she tried again.

“This is where he worked, but what about where he slept? His private room? We need to search that, as well.”

“Tha’s Col’s room,” Jewel repeated doggedly.

“But surely…”

“Tha’s Col’s room. ’E never come out, ’cept to go onstage. Anyfing ’e left is gonna be in there.”

Hermione stared at her in disbelief, then shifted her gaze to the room. It was barely big enough to hold the few pieces of furniture inside—cramped, cluttered, tawdry, depressing, with absolutely nothing in it to betray that a person actually lived here. It still smelled faintly of smoke from the blast that had torn open the wall, but lurking under that were the unmistakeable odors of sweat and sex. Even from the hallway she could smell them, and she could see the stains on the fouled red velvet of the chaise. She repressed a shudder.

“All right. Thank you, Jewel.”

As Hermione climbed through the hole to join Ron, Jewel growled, “Colin won’ like yer goin’ froo ’is fings. ’E’s private, ’e is.”

“You want us to find him, don’t you?” Ron said without turning to look at her. He was staring down at the litter of junk on the dressing table, his eyes bleak and hard.

“We’re only trying to help,” Hermione assured her. “We don’t mean him any harm. Could you just tell us what happened in here?”

Anger flared in the drudge’s eyes, and the words suddenly gushed out in a torrent. “’E’sjus’ gone, all righ’? Some bloke jus’ grabbed ’im! Col, ’e’s real pretty, see? The blokes all likes ’im too much. They fight over ’oo’s gonna get wif ’im, an’ Nero never does nuffink but shove anuvver one in there, b’fore the last one’s done. Col, ’e takes it cuz ’e’s got nowhere but ’ere. No one but us. ’E don’ go out, ever, an’ don’ like strangers comin’ in. ’E’s scared of summat, yeah? An’ now, cuz of ’Is Nibs always shovin’ the blokes at ’im like ’e does, one of ’em’s gone off ’is ’ead an’ grabbed poor Col an’ taken ’im away where ’e’s scared an’ alone an’ don’t got no one! Not even me! An’ now you lot come snoopin’ ’round, goin’ froo ’is fings…”

“We’re not going to hurt him, Jewel, I promise you. We want to find him and keep him safe. That’s all.”

Jewel scowled at her, refusing to bend and refusing to shift from her place directly outside the hole that passed as a doorway. At at tug on her sleeve from Ron, Hermione turned away from the drudge to look about the room. Again, she shuddered, and this time she made no attempt to hide it. Her sleeve brushed against the fabric spilling out of the wardrobe, and she shied away, unwilling to touch anything in this appalling place.

Harry had sent them here to find and remove any traces that might link Draco Malfoy with Colin the prostitute. He didn’t fool himself that he could keep Colin’s true identity a secret for long—his rash decision to kidnap the man from under Nero’s nose had ruined any chance of that—but he hoped to keep the Ministry and the public guessing as long as possible. Keep them off his trail long enough for Draco to heal and Harry to resolve his legal issues.

Hermione was fully on board with this effort and had volunteered to accompany Ron on the mission without a blink. But agreeing to it, planning it, dressing up in her Ministry robes and disguising her face, were one thing. Actually standing at the door, pretending to be here on Ministry business, when the ruse could cost her her job and land her in Azkaban was another thing altogether. And this… this horrible little room with its sordid feel and stink of sex… this was almost enough to send her running for the door.

The clatter of an object falling onto the dressing table brought her eyes up and her attention back to the present. Ron was wiping his hand on his robes, grimacing, and turning toward the wardrobe.

“You search that.” He waved blindly at the table. “I can’t… all that makeup and shite…”

Hermione didn’t argue. Throwing a glance over her shoulder, she saw that Jewel was still there, watching their every move, so she thrust her hand into her pocket to grasp her wand and threw a quick, wordless Muffliato at her. Then she approached the dressing table and began sifting through the rubbish on its top. Everything was smeared with a foul combination of grease paint and plaster dust from the exploded wall. It clung to her fingers, turning them gritty and white. As she worked, she heard Ron muttering and clunking about in the wardrobe.

“We should bring him some clothes,” she commented. “Harry’s won’t fit him, and he’d probably like something of his own.”

“There’s nothing in here but… I don’t even know what these are!”

She turned to see him holding up a filmy, nearly transparent wisp of pink and orange fabric. “Eurgh!”

“Yeah. They’re all like this. Or this.” He held up another garment—a thin, silk dressing gown painted with Chinese dragons in lurid shades of green and magenta.

“Not even a pair of jeans? Or some pants and socks?”

Ron dived headfirst into the tangle of bright fabrics calling back to her, “Hold up, I found a chest of drawers…”

She heard a drawer open, then a pause and it slammed shut again. Another opened and another. Ron abruptly reappeared, his face a shocking shade of red.

“What is it?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“No regular clothing?” Ron shook his head violently. Hermione chewed on her lip in distress. “There has to be something in here that actually belongs to Draco. He couldn’t live in this place for two solid years and leave no trace of himself.”

“I’m thinking that’s exactly what he did,” Ron muttered.

He turned away from the wardrobe, his eyes grim and his face taut, to search the rest of the room. Hermione focused her attention on the dressing table again, trying not to feel the rage coming off of Ron in waves. It threw her off balance, knowing how upset her husband was and having no way to calm him.

She felt it too—the lurch of horror every time she pictured Draco in this dreadful place, wearing these clothes, painting his face at this mirror and spreading himself out on those tatty, red cushions. It made her want to vomit. Then hurt someone. Hermione was not a woman given to violence, but after seeing how Draco had lived here, she would gladly hex Nero and his entire building full of Alley rats into oblivion, if she got the chance.

“Oi. I’ve got something.”

She turned from her search of the dressing table to see that Ron had flung open the curtain on the righthand wall to reveal a large bed. He was half under it, his legs flailing as he tried to wriggle back out with his hands full. Dropping the spangled hair clip she held, she moved over to get a look at his discovery.

Ron emerged from under the bed with a cardboard box in his hands. Like everything else in the room, it was shabby and worn and dirty, but she could instantly tell that it didn’t belong here. There was nothing of the brightly-painted whorehouse about it. It was simply a battered, old box that might have come out of any attic in the city.

He got to his feet and set it on the bed, then he slipped off the lid.

“’Ey! Get yer ’ands off that!”

They both turned to see Jewel struggling to climb through the hole with her twisted foot and misshapen leg. Her face was flushed an angry red, her eyes snapping.

“That’s private, that is!”

Hermione moved to intercept Jewel, while Ron bent over the box. She caught the woman by one stick-like arm and thrust her back into the hallway as gently as possible, feeling her Muffliato dissipate as she moved through it. The drudge had the sense not to fight her, but her entire body was vibrating with rage.

“Calm down, Jewel,” Hermione urged. “We’re only looking for clues.”

“Yer not! Yer sneakin’ an’ snoopin’ in ’is private business! You want to find Colin, you find the bloke wot nicked ’im! You leave ’is fings alone!”

“Jewel…”

The drudge abruptly tore out of her grasp and staggered back, breathing hard. “I’ll tell ’Is Nibs! I’ll tell ’im yer ’ere, an’ ’e’ll see you off!”

With that, she limped off down the hallway, muttering under her breath and dragging her bad leg behind her.

Hermione watched her for a frustrated moment, then bustled over to Ron. “We have to hurry. Nero will be here any minute. What did you find?”

In answer, Ron held up a green and silver Slytherin tie. As he gazed past it at Hermione, she saw tears in his eyes.

“Oh, my,” she whispered.

Dropping the tie into the box once more, Ron pushed aside a bundle of fabric and fingered a sheaf of papers. His face was twisted with the effort of controlling himself. “This is it. This is… Everything.” He pulled out a familiar book. Advanced Potion-Making. “Bloody hell, is this really all he’s got left?”

Hermione bit her lip to hold back her own tears.

“I can’t fucking believe this.” He stared at the old schoolbook as if it were a Dark artifact that had just cursed three of his friends.

“Obviously, we have to take that with us.” She clasped his shoulder in a vain attempt at comfort. “You’d better shrink it and get it out of sight before Nero shows up.”

“Yeah.”

He quickly put the book back in the box, fit the lid on, and tapped it with his wand. It shrank to the size of a matchbox in an instant. Shoving the tiny thing in his pocket, he got to his feet.

“Let’s finish and get the fuck out of here, before I lose my lunch.”

“I’ve just got a couple of drawers to check. Why don’t you take that one?” She pointed at the lefthand drawer.

Together, they rifled the drawers, checking every scrap of paper and bit of cloth for anything that might hint at Colin’s identity. Hermione discarded a piece of sticky waxed paper, a bottle of dittany, and a tube of raspberry-flavored lubricant before she located a slender stick of wood at the very bottom of the drawer.

“I’ve got a wand!”

“Ah. _That_ belongs to me, ducks.”

At the sound of that lisping, falsely-sweet voice, Ron and Hermione spun around to find a man standing just outside the room. He was huge and soft, with no apparent bones, swathed in opalescent robes that made him strongly resemble a misshapen wedding cake. He wore heavy makeup, with eyebrows drawn on in an exaggerated arch, and diamonds glinting in his earlobes. The hand that held the torn edge of the wall was as soft and squishy as the rest of him, the nails painted silver, and three rings crammed onto the sausage-like fingers.

Hermione’s first impulse was to laugh. Then she met his eyes, and her scalp prickled in warning. This was Nero, the man who had kept Draco Malfoy, of all people, cowed into abject submission for years. He was nothing to laugh at.

“I’ll have it back, thank you,” Nero said, holding out another beringed hand, “Then maybe you can tell old Nero what a pair of Ministry officials find so fascinating about an empty room.”

His eyes flickered over Hermione’s forest green robes, then over Ron’s more distinctive red ones, and Hermione was sure he knew that she had no business being here. Ron had offered to turn her robes red as part of her disguise, but she’d balked at the idea of impersonating an Auror. It was bad enough that she was sneaking into a brothel under false pretenses. To do it in fake Auror’s robes would be courting disaster!

Now she wished that she had taken that extra step. Surely anyone as savvy and cunning as Nero would know what her green robes signified. She could almost hear him laughing at her.

She clutched the wand more tightly, pressed back against the table to steady herself, and lifted her chin. “We’re here on Ministry business and will take what evidence we deem relevant. _Including_ this wand.”

Nero smirked at her. He didn’t lower his hand. “I do plenty of _business_ with the Ministry, but last I checked, it didn’t involve ransacking my rooms in the middle of the day. My wand, ducks, if you please.”

Ron fixed his best Auror Glare on Nero and growled, “If it’s yours, what’s it doing in here?”

“Lying in a drawer, it would seem.”

“We’re investigating the disappearance of one of your employees, the man who lived in this room. Colin, isn’t it?”

“Now, what makes you think my sweet Colin has disappeared?” Nero purred, his eyes like flint, his hand finally dropping to his side.

Ron looked around pointedly, picking up on Nero’s theatrical manner and mimicking it. “All I see is an empty room with a bloody, great hole in the wall and a wand with no apparent owner. If he’s not missing, then where is he?”

“I wouldn’t know. Taking the air, perhaps? He’s my lovely pet, not my prisoner, and I only put him on a leash when he asks for it.” Nero’s expression hardened—a very odd look on such a round face—and the sugar in his voice soured. “What I would like to know is how you got the silly idea that he’s missing and who gave you permission to search his room.”

“Your cleaning wom…” Hermione started, but Ron cut her off.

“Enough with the games, Nero,” he snarled, moving closer to the hole and the huge man filling it.

His posture was coiled, dangerous, powerful in a way that Hermione rarely saw. It made her burn with pride. He strode up until his nose was only a handspan away from the other man’s, and his wand suddenly materialized in his hand.

“We both know this Colin has gone missing, and we both know why you didn’t report it. You don’t want us to find him. You don’t want us to know he _exists._ ”

Nero glared at him with no trace of the mincing ponce left in his manner. He couldn’t summon Ron’s towering authority, but he was plenty intimidating without it. “His existence, or lack thereof, is no business of yours. He’s a law-abiding, hard-working boy who keeps himself to himself and bothers no one. If I want to loan him a wand, I will. If I want to protect him from harassment by the Ministry, I will. And if he’s in any kind of trouble, he knows he can come to old Nero for help.”

“Yeah, because _old Nero_ has no qualms about lying to Aurors and harboring fugitives, does he?”

Hermione, her face white with shock, sidled over to Ron and surreptitiously plucked at his sleeve. He dropped his free hand to touch hers in a gesture that said, _Trust me_ , clear as day, but didn’t reassure her.

What in the name of Merlin’s Blessed Balls was he doing? This was a terrible idea. Terrible in so many ways. They were supposed to get in and out with as little noise, as little notice as possible! _Not_ antagonize Nero! _Not_ reveal what they knew about Colin’s identity! _Not_ push this horrible, ruthless, old whoremonger into reporting them to the Ministry!

She clutched at his arm in earnest, her fingers tight enough to hurt, but Nero was speaking again and Ron ignored her.

“Fugitive?” He gave a harsh, humorless laugh. “Ridiculous! His name is Colin Creevey, and he’s no more a fugitive than you or I!”

Ron snorted. “Colin Creevey? Is that what he told you? Didn’t bother to check, though, did you?”

“My hiring practices are none of your affair.”

“They wouldn’t be, except that I know for a fact your boy, here, is not Colin Creevey. Colin Creevey died in the Battle of Hogwarts.”

“A lot of people disappeared in that battle…”

“Not disappeared, you lying sack of shite. _Died._ I _know_ he died because I was there and I saw his body _._ ” He pinned Nero with his hard gaze, daring him to object. “That’s right. I knew Colin. Went to school with him. Fought beside him and saw him lying dead in the Great Hall, along with the other murdered children. So, d’you want to tell me again who your boy is?”

Nero blanched white enough for it to be visible through his makeup. “I run a reputable business and would never knowingly harbor a fugitive under this roof. But in this line of work…”

“You don’t ask too many questions,” Ron supplied with a sneer.

“Most of my Talent doesn’t want to be traced or recognized,” Nero replied. “They use false names to shield themselves, and who can blame them? I respect their privacy.”

“Yeah.” Ron’s sneer deepened. “You seem the respectful type. So respect _this._ I’m going to find out all about this Colin of yours, including his real name and where he’s gone. If you get in my way, you’ll find yourself up in front of the Wizengamot on charges of obstructing justice, and that’s only the beginning _._ Because if I have to, I’ll talk to this _Talent_ you’re so fond of and get all the nasty little details about what you do to them behind closed doors. And I’ll wager it isn’t a pretty story.”

The two men stared each other down, the air practically smoking between them. Then, finally, Nero let his eyes shift away and Ron smirked in triumph.

“So be a good boy, keep your mouth shut, stay out of my way, and maybe you’ll stay out of prison. Right?” Nero said nothing, and Ron went on in a milder tone, “Is there anything else you want to tell us about how Colin went missing?”

“It was one of yours who snatched him,” Nero ground out. “He came in with a party of Ministry officials, masqueraded as the blushing bridegroom to get into Colin’s room, then refused to leave and apparated out with him when I tried to intervene.”

“Did Colin want to go?”

Nero’s glare lifted to his face, burning with fury. “He did not.”

“Would you recognize this Ministry official, if you saw him again?”

“He was in disguise.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m assuming as much. It’s common among my customers, especially those with high-profile jobs.” He showed his teeth in something that was not a smile. “Not many Aurors want to be seen paying to fuck a prostitute. And if it _was_ the bridegroom in question…”

“If?” Ron prodded.

The non-smile widened grotesquely. “Considering that he kidnapped a pretty boy-cunt only days before the wedding, I’m guessing that was a lie. Or the wedding didn’t come off as planned. Maybe that’s your clue to the kidnapper’s identity—find the fellow Auror who left his bride at the altar while he was off buggering his new fuck-toy.”

Ron stared him down for another minute, refusing to react to his crudeness, then twitched his head at Hermione and the wand she still held. “That’s yours? It was never registered to Colin or used outside these walls?”

“Not since I acquired it, but I am not its original owner. I don’t know how it was used before it came into my hands.”

“When was that.”

“Five, six years ago?” Before Ron could ask, he added, “I accepted it as payment. I did not steal it.”

Ron caught Hermione’s eye, then gestured toward Nero. “Give it to him.”

She held out the wand without comment and let Nero take it from her.

“We’re done here,” Ron said shortly, and gave Nero a nudge with his wand to move him out of the way.

The big man sidled back a step or two. “What are you going to do with Colin, when you find him?”

“I thought you didn’t ask questions.”

Ron stepped through the ragged hole, then crowded Nero still further back to give Hermione room. She climbed out, and together, they squeezed past Nero and headed toward the stairs. Nero followed.

“Are you going to arrest him?” he demanded, trailing at their heels and laboring to keep up.

“Not your problem,” Ron growled. Hermione could see the tension in him, see that he longed to be shot of Nero as desperately as she did.

“What if I were to guarantee his good behavior and offer him paying work? Would you consider sending him back to me?”

 _Back to you?!_ Hermione almost shrieked. _Are you out of your mind?!_

She had criticized Harry for essentially kidnapping Malfoy and for holding him at the cottage against his will, but now she understood why he’d done it. After seeing that room… seeing Nero…

How could Malfoy have put himself in that creature’s power? How could he have let it _touch_ him? Because she had no doubt what Nero was doing to his ‘Talent’ behind closed doors, as Ron had hinted. He was taking more than their money and their freedom, he was taking _them_. But Malfoy? Letting that _thing_ use him in such a way? It defied belief. Made her blood run cold. Made her vow to herself that she would do absolutely anything to keep him out of Nero’s clutches.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and the hallway that led into the main lounge. Nero was still whinging about Colin’s fate, setting Hermione’s teeth on edge. Ron halted and turned to confront him.

“You want to keep the Ministry out of your business? You want to keep you arse out of prison? Then stick to your story that you don’t know shite about Colin Creevey, or whoever he really is, and shut your bleeding gob. Got it?”

Nero glared at him, quivering inside his iridescent robes like an outraged custard, then abruptly pushed past them and marched into the lounge. He did not wait to see if his unwanted visitors would follow, just plowed through the dim, cavernous room toward the outer door. Ron and Hermione were whirled along in his wake and, a breathless minute later, found themselves standing out in the square.

The door slammed shut behind them, and a bolt thunked into place. They exchanged a single wordless glance, then Ron held out his hand to Hermione. She took it, turned on the spot, and apparated them away.

 

They landed in their own sitting room. Ron stumbled, caught off balance by their abrupt arrival, then collapsed onto the sofa with a grunt. His shoulders slumped and he buried his head in his hands. Hermione saw that he was shaking.

“Bloody hell,” he mumbled. “Bloody fucking hell.”

“You have the box, don’t you?”

In answer, he reached into his pocket and produced the shrunken cardboard box.

“Thank goodness!” She took it from his palm and touched it with her wand. It expanded with a pop. “I was so afraid Jewel would tell Nero that we’d found it.”

Ron lifted his head and said, tiredly, “My guess is Jewel doesn’t tell _’Is Nibs_ much.”

“No.” Hermione set the box carefully on the table and sat down next to Ron. “She seemed to think this was very important to Malfoy. She got very upset when you opened it. So it probably was something he kept secret, even from his… Erm…”

Ron stared at the box, his face drawn and miserable. “Can- can you believe he…”

“Shh.” She put a hand on his thigh and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I didn’t think it would be like that.”

“Neither did I,” she murmured.

“I don’t know what I really expected, but that… that was just…” He buried his face in his hands again and moaned, “Merlin’s bloody balls, Hermione! How could he _live_ like that?”

She didn’t answer for a long minute, then she said, very softly, “I expect he had nowhere else to go.”

“Nowhere else?” Ron’s head came up with a snap. “ _Nowhere else?!_ When we were turning over every bloody rock in Britain to find him?!”

He turned furious, red-rimmed eyes on her. His disguise had vanished the moment they crossed the wards into their home, so it was her husband’s familiar face—flushed with anger and twisted with pain—that gazed back at her. His lips began to tremble and the first tears slipped through his lashes.

“Harry would’ve done anything for him. Hell, _I_ would’ve done anything! One bloody owl, telling me he was alive, and I would’ve blasted down Nero’s door to get to him!”

“I know. Shh.” She pulled his head down to her shoulder and clasped it tightly, as his tears quickened.

“I’ll kill that Nero,” he mumbled wetly into her robes. “I’ll AK him and sell his carcass to the Black Market organ-dealers. Turn him into illegal potions and flesh-eating slug repellent. I swear I will.”

Hermione tried not to laugh, but the image of that bloated wedding cake being carved into potions ingredients was too macabrely funny to resist. She chuckled. Then she sniffed, as her own eyes started watering.

After a moment of shared pleasure in their vengeful thoughts, she ventured, “Was it such a good idea to tell him what we knew about Colin?”

“Huh?” Ron lifted his head to show her a swollen, blotchy face and running nose.

“We were supposed to get in and out as quietly as possible, but you went all Auror on him. Threatened him.”

“I needed to scare him a little, that’s all. I didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.”

“You told him about the real Colin Creevey dying at Hogwarts…”

“Which anyone could find out by reading an account of the Battle.”

“I don’t like it. We were too aggressive.”

“Dealing with a sharp customer like Nero, what choice did we have? Think about it, Hermione. Did I actually _say_ that I knew who Colin really was? Did I _say_ that he was a wanted man and we’d arrest him when we found him, or that Nero would go to prison for hiding him?”

Hermione thought about it. She reviewed the entire conversation, trying to remember Ron’s exact words, and came to the reluctant conclusion that Ron was right. He had outmaneuvered Nero without her spotting it.

“I… don’t think so,” she finally admitted.

“Too right. I put the fear of Azkaban into him, without actually committing to anything that isn’t public knowledge. And I learned a fair bit in the process.”

“Such as?”

“That he didn’t recognize Harry and hasn’t connected the kidnapper with Malfoy’s past—he thinks it was just a punter who didn’t want to wait his turn. Also that he hasn’t told anyone about the kidnapping and is afraid of what’ll happen to Malfoy if the Ministry finds him.”

“Ye-es, I suppose…”

“So he won’t complain to the Ministry about our little visit, for fear of drawing more attention to Malfoy, himself and his sleazy club.” Ron grinned and stated, with understandable smugness, “We can tell Harry that Nero’s not a threat, as long as he never finds out that it was Harry Potter who nicked his pretty pet.”

Hermione pondered this for another moment, then leaned over to press a kiss to his wet cheek. “You’re brilliant, Ronald.”

He flushed with pleasure. “Yeah, well, it’s my job, y’know.”

“I know. And I’m sorry for doubting you.” Bouncing to her feet with renewed energy, she said, “We should get this box to Harry.”

Ron’s smile faded, the haunted look creeping back into is eyes. He shifted uncomfortably and glanced away from her. “I, er, think I’ll fetch Rosie home. You can talk to Harry and check on Malfoy. If that’s okay with you.”

“Of course it is.” She put a hand on his arm and peered into his averted face. “He’s going to be all right, Ron. He’s out of there, safe, back with the people who love him, and we’ll protect from Nero.”

Ron gave a jerky nod and swallowed without looking at her.

She pressed another kiss to his cheek, then grabbed the box and headed for the floo. “I won’t be long.”

“If you talk to Malfoy, tell him… tell him I said he’s a ferret-faced git and I’ll see him when I see him.”

Hermione smiled softly as she tossed a handful of floo powder into the flames. “I will.” Stepping into the flames, she called, “Harry Potter’s cottage!” and whirled out of sight.

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	8. Better Off Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to all my readers and the loyal reviewers who keep me writing! I hope you enjoy the chapter!

****A Snitch. A sock. A tie. An old textbook.

Harry sat with an old cardboard box on his lap, Draco sleeping fitfully beside him, and sorted through the pathetic remnants ofa lost life. It was a depressing collection. Some pieces, like the bits of Slytherin uniform, were things he might have expected Draco to preserve. Others, like the handful of familiar blue and white flannel, completely baffled him.

Harry would recognize that pattern of thin stripes, that beguiling combination of age and softness anywhere. But hospital wing pajamas? Why would Draco steal a pair of hospital wing pajamas and carry it with him into exile?

He lifted the worn, nearly bald flannel to his face to inhale the imagined scents of antiseptic, potions, and warm teenaged bodies. All he really smelled was dust, but the sense memory was so strong that he was sure he caught echoes of the Hogwarts hospital wing still clinging to the fabric. It brought a smile to his face, even as it made his throat tighten with pain.

He set the pajamas aside and took another item from the box—a slim, leather-bound book, the title stamped in gold on its cover. _Romeo and Juliet_.

Draco read Shakespeare. Sodding _Shakespeare?_ Wasn’t he a Muggle and far beneath the notice of pureblood wizards? And of all the plays to choose, why the one about doomed lovers dying by their own hand? That seemed entirely too romantic a notion for a Malfoy, yet obviously it had meant enough to Draco that he’d carried it all the way from Malfoy Manor to the _Horntail_.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Harry returned the book to the box and pulled out a folded sheaf of papers. It had been pressed against the side of the box, undisturbed, for long enough that the pages did not want to open. Harry had to force them flat. Then he riffled through the stack, revealing photographs, newspaper articles, and even a letter in his own messy scrawl.

The articles were all about him—Harry Potter receiving the Order of Merlin; shaking Kingsley Shacklebolt’s hand; showing off his crisp new Auror’s robes while flanked by the other Young Wands; standing beside Headmistress McGonagall at the dedication of the rebuilt Hogwarts and beside Ron Weasley at his wedding—and all from the months immediately following Voldemort’s death. The one thing that immediately struck Harry was that they were all _true._ There were no fawning, sycophantic profiles of the Savior and no backstairs gossip about his love life. Even the article that showed him at a Holyhead Harpies match, cheering on their star Seeker, did not include speculation about his relationship with Ginny Weasley. Clearly, Draco had known what to keep, what to believe, and what to discard.

It moved Harry—the care and devotion he saw in those little scraps of newsprint. How lonely had Draco been when he spent his days searching the pages of the _Prophet_ for Harry’s face, desperate for a window into the world that had forgotten him? How wistfully had he folded each story into his growing pile, tucked it into the box hidden beneath his bed?

Spying a glossy photograph among the fan of papers, Harry plucked it out to look more closely.

It was a portrait of the Malfoy family from Draco’s childhood—Harry couldn’t tell exactly when, but definitely pre-Hogwarts. Draco was so small, his little hand tucked in Narcissa’s and his silver-blond hair falling messily over his forehead. And his smile was so wide, so innocent, so purely happy that it made Harry’s chest hurt to look at it. Narcissa cast tender glances down at her son, between posing for the camera and listening to her husband’s muttered remarks. Even Fucking Lucius looked younger, sleeker, more relaxed and open, though he couldn’t resist curling his lip in disdain now and then.

This was the family Draco remembered, Harry realized. The family he loved so much that he would sacrifice himself to save it. Not the cold, aloof woman who turned a blind eye to his suffering, or the father who bartered his body for political favors, but this smiling couple and their radiantly beautiful son.

Harry stared at their faces, touching the image of Draco’s younger self with a gentle fingertip. He was still lost in contemplation of this distant past, of the things it told him about the man he loved, when he heard a sound from the bed. Dropping the sheaf of papers into the box, but carefully setting aside the photo with the pajamas, Harry clapped the lid onto it and slid it under the bed with his toe. Then he shifted forward in his chair to study his patient.

Draco was still asleep, but no longer quiet. He shifted restlessly beneath the blankets, rolled his head against the pillow, breathed out a moan that lifted the hairs on Harry’s neck. His face and hair were damp with sweat, and his lips were so dry that they had cracked and bled. Harry laid a hand on his forehead, then against his cheek. He felt warm and sticky and _wrong._

“Draco? Can you hear me?”

Draco thrashed and pushed at the blanket, something close to a sob rising in his throat.

Harry took a cloth from the tray on the bedside table, dipped it in a bowl of water, and pressed it to Draco’s cheek. As he gently stroked away the stains fouling the pale skin, fresh tears leaked from between Draco’s lashes to mark it. Harry wiped those away, as well, then used a corner of the cloth to moisten his lips.

“It’s all right, Draco. All right.”

The sleeping man only moaned and twisted away from his touch, muttering words Harry could not understand.

“You’re safe,” Harry urged softly, “safe with me. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

“Nnngh-no! No, please!”

Draco’s eyes suddenly snapped open, and for a moment, they were totally unguarded. Shocked, terrified, clogged with tears, but they stared straight into Harry’s and _saw him._ Then, in the next breath, they went blank. Empty.

Harry tried not to show his disappointment. He pressed his lips together, forced one corner of his mouth up in a smile, and blotted away the moisture that spilled from Draco’s eyes. Then he set aside the cloth and knotted his fingers together in his lap.

“I think you’re running a fever. Would you like some water?”

Draco just stared at him with those dull eyes, but Harry took it as an affirmative. Deftly, with no wasted movements or unwelcome touches, he lifted Draco’s head, offered him the glass of water, and tilted it down his throat. The instant he took his hands away, Draco twisted onto his side and huddled down under the blankets, his back to Harry.

He was shivering. Harry could see it even through the layers covering him. He was soaked with sweat, shivering with cold, and trying to sink through the mattress to escape both Harry and himself. Draco Malfoy hated being ill and hated being dirty even more. He must be in torment right now, Harry thought, disgusted by his condition, the state of his body, and his total dependence on a man he no longer trusted.

Well, Harry couldn’t fix all of it, but he could certainly help him feel better in his own skin.

“Hey, Draco,” he murmured, “how about a bath?”

Draco’s head turned. His eyes found Harry’s _._

“It’ll cook out some of your aches and pains, bring your temperature down, and clean you up properly. Spells just aren’t the same, are they?”

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He rolled onto his back and gazed up at Harry, so much pleading in his gaze that his loyal nursemaid almost laughed aloud at it. For once, Harry didn’t have to guess what Draco wanted because it was written all over his face.

He smiled at Draco and got to his feet. “Give me five minutes.” Then he strode out of the room in search of Kreacher.

 

* * *

 

A bath. Blessed Merlin, a _bath._

Draco had never heard two such beautiful words in his life. At the sound of them, he was suddenly filled with tears and gratitude and a desperate longing that had no place in his dried-up whore’s heart. He couldn’t speak without betraying himself, so he just looked at Harry—no, _Potter_ —and prayed that the man would understand him.

_Please. Please, Potter, let me soak in the hot water. Wash the filth from my hair. Close my eyes and drift in the warmth and the wetness and… Oh gods, Potter, PLEASE!_

The smile on Potter’s face—the one that said he heard every word unspooling in Draco’s head—forced him to turn away again to avoid those triumphant green eyes.

It was foolish, really. Hiding. But he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t face Potter with his soul bleeding out through his eyes and his body shaming him in ways more hideous than anything his customers had ever done to him.

He ignored the sounds Potter made coming and going, knocking about in the bathroom, murmuring to the house-elf outside the door. He focused on the promise of a bath—the hope of relief however skin-deep and short-lived—and tried not to think of the man offering it to him. Of Potter. Of Harry. Of the way he looked when he smiled and his eyes lit with longing.

“Okay.” Potter’s voice dragged his eyes open and his attention back to the torturous present. He was standing over the bed, smiling down at Draco. “Can you walk as far as the bathroom?”

Draco thought about that. He knew the path to the bathroom well. He’d walked it more than once, leaning on Harry’s arm or the house-elf’s shoulder. He’d let Kreacher waft him along it with his magic when his legs could no longer carry him. He saw it sometimes in his nightmares—stretching out endlessly before him, taunting him, while his body ached and burned and shook. He wanted to say that he could walk it now, when the pain had eased and the cramping and nausea were gone. But the very thought of shifting his drained, exhausted body from the bed made him want to whimper and weep and beg to be left alone to die in peace.

Finally, when Potter’s smile had faded into worry, he pried his lips open to answer. “No.”

“I’ll have to use magic, then.”

“Where’s the elf?”

“In the kitchen, trying to come up with something to tempt your palate. He takes it as a personal affront that you won’t eat his food.” Giving Draco a wistful look, he added, “Would you be more comfortable with him?”

Draco wanted to say _yes_. He wanted to drive Potter out of the room before the other man bundled him up in his irresistible magic and carried him off to the bath like an overgrown child. But he couldn’t. Not with those eyes fixed on him, full of hurt and hope.

He couldn’t. So he didn’t.

“No.”

That heartbreakingly lovely smile spread over Potter’s face again. Pulling a wand from his jeans pocket, he waved it over the bed, and the blankets peeled back from Draco’s shivering body. Another wave, and he went weightless. With a murmured apology, Potter stooped to slip his arms behind his shoulders and knees, then he lifted Draco effortlessly in his arms and carried him into the bathroom.

Potter had been busy. The room was lit with floating candles and deliciously warm. An enormous claw-legged bathtub stood in one corner of it, a chair and low, marble-topped table standing close beside it. Hot water and bubbles filled the tub. Steam and a familiar, faintly woody scent rose enticingly from its surface, calling up distant memories in Draco’s brain.

He didn’t smile, but he did turn a questioning look on Potter.

“Sandalwood,” Potter murmured, his eyes glinting in delight, as he lowered Draco carefully onto the chair. “Your favorite from the Prefect’s bathroom. It took me a whole day in a Muggle shop, smelling essential oils, to identify it. Do you like it?”

Draco didn’t answer, just reached for the buttons on his shirt and began to pry the first one open.

“Don’t bother with that.” Potter gave another flick of his wand, and Draco was suddenly naked.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to cover himself. There was no point. And while Draco still felt many kinds of shame these days, shame at his own nakedness was not one of them. He caught hold of the wide, smooth lip of the bath and struggled to push himself to his feet.

Another surge of magic took hold of him, lifting him gently into the air, then he floated over the bathtub and sank slowly down into the water. Heat rushed over him, making him flush red and gasp, then the divine scents of sandalwood and soap hit him and his head swam deliriously.

He was slipping… sliding beneath the surface… falling into a bottomless well of warmth… drowning in perfumed heat…

He grabbed at the lip of the bath, but his fingers were weak and useless, unable to find purchase or stop his slide. Water lapped around his mouth. His back curved, hips rising, body losing contact with the bottom, and his head went under.

It was beautiful. Hot and caressing and seductive. His long hair drifted around him in a cloud, growing heavier as it absorbed the water, dragging his head down. It was a beautiful death.

Then a hand reached down through the water and grabbed his arm. Pulled him up. Brought him into the air and light. Water streamed from his hair, across his face, into his mouth as he gasped for breath. He coughed, spluttered, pushed the sodden curtain away from his nose and mouth, while the rescuing hand clutched his arm and held him upright. When he finally cleared the hair and water from his eyes, he saw Potter kneeling beside him, holding tightly to him, and frowning.

“Were you trying to drown yourself?” he asked.

Draco shook his head.

Potter’s eyes studied him, seeing far more than Draco wanted them to, he was sure. “I think I’d better… umm… help you,” he ventured. “You might pass out in there. Or just slip under and be too weak to pull yourself up.”

Draco watched in growing panic as Potter got to his feet and began stripping off his clothes. He got down to a pair of loose, cotton boxer shorts and a white t-shirt. Draco ducked his head, so he didn’t see Potter wave his wand to make the tub wider or climb into the water behind him. He was suddenly aware of another body at his back and drew himself into a defensive huddle between Potter’s bent, spread knees. Ducking his head to rest on his own knees, Draco let the long filthy strings of hair fall over his face to hide it, then fan out in the water.

Potter shifted, making the water slosh, then Draco felt something touch his back. A washcloth, thick with soap. It stroked over his back, along one shoulder, down one arm.

Potter moved again, and wet fabric rubbed against Draco’s hip. He lifted his head and turned to cast a furtive glance over his shoulder at the other man.

Potter was still dressed in a t-shirt and pants. In the bath. He was even wearing socks. Potter had climbed into the bath in his _socks._ But why?

“You don’t have to be afraid, Draco,” he murmured, stroking the washcloth down Draco’s other arm, “I won’t touch you with my bare hands. I won’t do anything you don’t want, I promise.”

The cloth disappeared as Potter worked more soap into it, then it skated over his ribs and down to his hip.

“I just want to help you wash. Shampoo your hair for you. Keep the water warm.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had turned wistful. “Keep you from drowning.”

“Why the socks?” Draco asked in a rough whisper.

Potter chuckled. “Okay, maybe that was a bit much, but the less bare skin you have to deal with, the better.” He reached beneath Draco’s arm to hold out the cloth where he could see it. “Do you want to do it yourself?”

Draco stared at it, dumbfounded, his eyes filling with tears, and shook his head. As Potter resumed washing him with smooth, gentle strokes, Draco lowered his head to bury his face in his knees and began to weep.

Potter must have seen him shaking. He couldn’t see Draco’s tears or hear his silent sobs, but he knew he was crying and paused in his work to murmur, “Don’t. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Draco continued to weep, cursing himself for not hiding it better but unable to stop. Potter continued to stroke him clean, gentle him with soft words, and finally coax him into settling back against his clothed body.

“Lean back, it’s all right. See? You don’t have to touch me, if you don’t want. Put your arms up on the sides so I can wash you… yeah, like that. Good. I just need a little more soap…”

Draco obeyed. He couldn’t help himself. He lay with his head in the hollow of Potter’s shoulder and his arms resting wide on the sides of the bath, while the other man washed his body clean. He was quietly grateful for the fabric barrier between their bodies, but he didn’t fool himself that it meant he was any less Potter’s than if they were tangled naked together in the water. No cloth could disguise the intimacy of his touch, any more than his soft voice and careful requests could mask the possessive power in him.

He was Harry Fucking Potter. He owned Draco Malfoy. He always had. Draco had never wanted it any other way… until now… maybe… when he was too weak to fight it…

The cloth touched his face, wiping away the mingled tears and steam from his cheeks.

“How’s the pain?” Potter whispered in his ear. “Does the hot water help?”

“Mm,” Draco grunted without opening his eyes.

“You really need to eat. Just a bit of soup.”

“Can’t move,” Draco mumbled.

“You don’t have to move.”

He felt Potter lift an arm, summon his magic, and he cracked open an eye to see what was happening. After a moment, a delicate china bowl came swooping through the open door and into Potter’s outstretched hand. Potter brought it down where Draco could reach it, but Draco just shut his eyes, his arms floating uselessly in the hot water.

With a chuckle, Potter tilted the bowl to Draco’s lips and ordered, “Drink.”

He drank. What else could he do?

It was good. Rich and savory. Soothing in his raw throat. Somehow exactly what he needed when he had practically melted in the bath, too enervated to lift a hand to feed himself.

“That’s it,” Potter purred. “More?”

He drank more. And still more. His stomach began to cramp, warning him that he’d pushed himself far enough, and when Potter offered the bowl again, he turned his head away.

“Okay, you did really well. Kreacher will be pleased.” Potter’s arms didn’t quite close around him, but they slipped beneath Draco’s own to support him, and if a bit of bare skin caressed his under the water… well, neither man said anything. “Just lie quiet, let your body get used to having food in it again, then we’ll wash your hair.”

Draco sighed, deflating into the water and Potter’s unacknowledged embrace. And if a few more tears oozed from beneath his lashes—tears of relief or gratitude or humiliation at his utter helplessness or whatever had caused them this time—they didn’t acknowledge those, either.

 

By the time Potter got him clean and dry and back in bed, Draco was so tired he was beyond caring what liberties the other man might take with his naked body. He collapsed back against the sweet-smelling pillow, his hair now pulled into a neat plait to keep it out of his face, and let his eyes drift closed. Then he felt Potter sliding trousers over his bare feet, up his calves, and something about the touch of the fabric against his skin brought his eyes open with a start.

He strained to look down at his feet and saw them swathed in blue and white flannel. Levering himself up on his elbows, he stared at the unmistakable trousers in disbelief. Potter smiled as he slid them up his thighs.

“Can you lift your arse? Or should I use magic?”

Draco just gaped at him.

“Magic it is, then.”

Draco’s body drifted up off the mattress, drawing a yelp from him, and Potter tugged the waistband up over his hips. Draco settled onto the bed again, but he braced himself on his hands, refusing to lie back. Ignoring his wide, accusing eyes, Potter began pulling a sweatshirt over his head.

“What… what are you doing?” Draco asked, his voice muffled by the shirt.

“Getting you dressed. Your temperature’s still a little high, so you need to stay warm. Do you want socks? Or is a charm good enough?”

Draco stared at him, while Potter tugged his long plait free of the shirt collar and draped it over his shoulder.

“I can’t believe how long your hair is. Did you use magic to grow it out, or did it just…”

“Potter.”

The other man threw him a startled look, his mouth open to protest, then shut it and pressed his lips together. The hurt and regret in his eyes told Draco that he understood perfectly why he had chosen that name. Draco felt an answering jolt of pain in his chest but ignored it.

“What are those?” he asked, nodding at the flannel trousers.

“They’re yours.”

A cold fist closed around Draco’s heart, but he kept his face blank.

“I thought you’d like to have something of your own to wear—something familiar and comfortable—so I had Kreacher wash them and lay them out for you. I couldn’t find the shirt, so…”

“My box,” Draco rasped out. “You were in my box. How…?”

Harry sat down, slowly, on the edge of the mattress and turned mournful eyes on him. “Ron and Hermione found it at the club.”

Draco shook his head dumbly, too sickened for words.

Weasel and Granger had been in the club. _In his room_. They had seen it all… _searched_ it all, if they’d found the box… seen the wardrobe full of costumes and the drawers full of sex toys, the makeup and dittany and lube and… _Bloody fucking hell!_

The blood drained from his face. His gorge rose. He leaned over the side of the bed, ready to spew his dinner all over the floor, but Potter was too fast for him.

Grabbing the back of his neck, Potter pushed his head down to his knees and ordered, “Breathe. Come on, Draco, breathe… In and out… No,” he barked, as Draco tried to pull away, “keep your head down. Breathe. That’s it.”

After a moment, the nausea subsided, and Draco grunted, “Let me up.”

Potter’s hand fell away, allowing him to straighten up again. He pulled his knees up against his chest in a protective huddle and wrapped his arms around his shins, his eyes still fixed on Potter’s face.

“What were they doing at the club?” he finally asked, when he could master his voice.

“Looking for anything that could connect Colin with you. And for anything of yours that you might want.”

Draco swallowed the renewed sickness in his throat. “The box.”

Potter nodded. “They found it under your bed and brought it here. I… went through it.” The look on his face must have alarmed Potter, because his cheeks paled and his tone grew urgent. “I only wanted to help, Draco, honestly. The stuff in that box is your private business, and I wouldn’t have looked at it, except I wanted to find something that would help you get through this. Something that would make you feel better. Like the pajamas.”

Draco stared at him in horror, his hands running unconsciously up and down his flannel-clad legs. The feel of it was soothing. Familiar. And even as he shuddered with disgust, convinced that he would die from sheer embarrassment, the flannel under his hands comforted him.

“I don’t know why you stole a pair of pajamas from the Hogwarts hospital wing,” Potter went on more softly, “but I know from long experience how comfortable they are. And they fit you better than my pajamas.”

“Hmm,” Draco ventured, unsure if he could actually open his lips without screaming. Or vomiting.

“What happened to the shirt?”

“Blood,” he said in a strangled voice. “I c- couldn’t wash it out.”

“No house-elves around?”

Draco shook his head. He couldn’t tell Potter that it had happened at the height of the war, when Voldemort had routinely tortured him for fun, then watched as one or more of his minions continued his sport. The house-elves weren’t permitted to help him, then. He’d stood in his own bathroom, naked, open wounds on his back and blood on his legs, scrubbing at the ruined shirt under the hot tap and weeping furious, silent tears.

He only found out later, from Phineas’ servants, that bloodstains should be soaked in cold water. Too late to save the shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Potter said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Would you rather not wear them?”

“No.” His hands knotted reflexively in the soft fabric. “I want them.”

“Okay. I found something else that… well…” Reaching for the bedside table, he lifted something from among the litter of potion bottles and water glasses, and handed it to Draco. “Here. I thought you might want this, too, so I had Kreacher find a frame for it.”

Draco took it, stared down at it, and felt his heart lurch. It was a photograph in an ornate, silver frame. He didn’t recognize the frame, but the picture was one he had stared at for so long, over so many nights stretching into years, that the image was burned onto his retinas. The Malfoy family. Together. Happy. His father looking sleek and handsome and invincible, his mother looking…

His throat closed up tight, and he tilted the frame to rest against his chest, hiding his mother’s smiling face from his burning eyes.

“Draco?” Potter sounded uncertain. “Did I fuck up? Is it too much?”

He shook his head and clenched his eyes shut, fighting for control.

“I saw it, and I thought… this is the way you’d want to remember them.”

“It is,” Draco whispered.

“You… oh, fuck, I don’t know if I should even tell you this, now, but…”

“Tell me what?”

“Your family isn’t gone. Not all of it, anyway. Your mother is free, living in Southern France. And she… she knows you’re alive.”

He lifted his head, opened his eyes, to find Potter gazing earnestly at him. “How?”

“I told her. But that’s _all_ I told her, until you decide what you want her to know!”

Draco blinked at him, confused and overwhelmed by this news, unable to process it yet. But the next question had to be asked. “My father?”

Potter’s face crumpled. “He’s dead.” He swallowed, fighting to get the words out, then managed, “I’m sorry.”

Draco dropped his head and turned the picture so he could see it again.

Dead. Lucius Malfoy dead. But not the Lucius in this picture. Not the man he had loved and admired and striven to please. No. That man had died long before his body went into a grave, just like his son.

“If it’s any consolation, he was with your mother at the end. I don’t know if…” Potter broke off and sighed. “I don’t know how you feel about him. If you care. But you should know that she took care of him through his illness and had him buried in an old Malfoy family crypt. So he… maybe he’s at peace. He’d be glad to know that he wasn’t left in an unmarked grave on Azkaban, anyway.”

Draco gazed at him blankly. “Why do you care, Potter?”

“I don’t. Not about Fu… erm, Lucius. But you have a right to know what happened to your father, and you have a right to mourn him, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Draco whispered, tracing the image of his father’s face with a fingertip.

“Well, do you want the picture beside your bed? Or would you rather that I put it away?”

“No, here. Please.”

Potter took the framed picture from his hands and shoved several bottles aside to make room for it at the edge of the bedside table. Draco sank back on his pillow, then curled himself up on his side, his eyes never leaving Potter’s hands and the picture in them. When it was placed so he could see it clearly from the bed, Potter pulled the blankets up over Draco’s body and renewed the warming spell on them without apparent effort. Draco continued to gaze at his parents’ faces, unblinking, until Potter stepped away from the bed. Then Draco stretched a hand toward him.

Or was it toward the picture? Impossible to say, but it halted Potter’s move to leave and brought him back to Draco’s side.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Draco whispered soundlessly.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

His hand twitched. Potter hesitated, then rested his own over it very lightly. Draco let his breath out on a sigh and curled his fingers against the mattress, finding Potter’s and clasping them. Another beat, another moment of hesitation, then Potter sank into the chair beside him.

Closing his eyes, Draco fell asleep holding Potter’s— _Harry’s_ —hand.

 

*** *** ***

 

Once again, Harry was just beginning to relax when the wards lit up to warn him of visitors. He was eating breakfast this time, tucking into a plate full of eggs, bacon, fried tomatoes and roasted potatoes, washed down with a cup of coffee strong enough to dissolve a silver spoon. He was enjoying his first proper meal—sitting at a table with actual cutlery and a serviette to wipe his chin—in days. Then the fucking wards went off.

He dropped his fork, grabbed his wand, and lurched to his feet. Before he could get around the table to investigate, he heard a familiar voice calling, “Harry! Harrryyyy!”

“In the kitchen!” he bellowed, as he dropped back into his seat.

Footsteps clattered on the stairs—more than one set, warning him that Hermione was not alone—and his two best mates rushed into the kitchen. Hermione clutched a newspaper in her hands. Ron held Rose. Both looked as if they’d just rolled out of bed and forgotten to fasten half their buttons. Rose was dead asleep.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” Harry grumbled by way of greeting.

Ron scowled. “Robards can go bugger himself. This is more important.”

“What?”

Hermione strode up to the table and slapped the paper down on it. “This.”

“Get that shite off my table,” Harry said irritably.

“Read it.”

“Hermione, you know I don’t…”

“ _Read it._ ”

Surrendering to the inevitable, Harry slid the paper closer and ran his eyes over the front page. His hand froze, fork halfway to his mouth, and his jaw dropped. “ _What the fuck?_ ”

A single headline sprawled across the entire page, proclaiming:

 

**_BETTER OFF DEAD!_ **

 

Directly below it was a panel containing three large pictures: Draco onstage at the _Horntail_ in all the glory of his transparent costume, striking makeup and cloak of silver hair; Draco, again as Colin, dressed only in a skimpy dressing gown that slid open to show one bare thigh and hip with every movement; and an old publicity shot of Draco Malfoy the Pureblood Prince, standing with his parents at a fancy-dress Ministry function.

Harry gaped at the pictures, too shocked even to absorb what they meant, for a full thirty seconds. Then he heard Ron mutter, “Thought you’d want to know,” and his brain jerked back into gear. His eyes scanned the first few paragraphs.

 

**_Sex worker or Death Eater? Does the Ministry know the difference?_ **

_These photos, taken at notorious nightspot_ The Horntail _, reveal that suspected Death Eater Draco Malfoy has been working as a stage performer and prostitute in the popular Knockturn Alley brothel. Malfoy, who escaped Azkaban after You Know Who’s fall by playing dead, has been masquerading as Muggle-born Colin Creevey while turning tricks and singing for his supper, quite literally under the noses of the Ministry. Now, in an even more alarming twist, the killer-turned-rent-boy has gone missing and is reportedly at large in Wizarding London!_

_Is the false Colin really Draco Malfoy? How big a threat does he pose? Is the Ministry even looking for him? Or has he used his singular talents to buy his freedom?_

_We tried to ask Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt and Head Auror Gawain Robards these very questions and received only slammed doors in answer. But sources close to the story had more to say on the matter…_

 

Dragging his gaze up from the page, Harry stared in dawning horror at Hermione. She was chewing her lip, her eyes wide and her cheeks white.

“How did this happen?” he growled. “ _What did you do?!_ ”

“Nothing!” Hermione protested.

“We didn’t speak to anyone but Nero,” Ron assured him, “and some manky little cleaning girl who was in love with Malfoy.”

“Neither of whom would talk to the _Prophet_ ,” Hermione added.

“Well, someone did!” Harry shoved the paper toward Hermione, sending the loose pages skittering across the table. “And they took _pictures!_ ”

Ron and Hermione gazed down at the photos with matching guilty expressions that made Harry’s blood boil.

“I told you to keep a low profile! I told you we couldn’t risk exposing him!”

“We _didn’t!_ ” Hermione wailed. “We were _careful!_ ”

“Look, mate,” Ron offered, “anyone in that rathole could’ve heard about our visit and decided to make a few Knuts off of Malfoy’s disappearance. There’s no way that lump Nero told ‘em anything. He turned six shades of white when I implied that he could go to prison for hiding a fugitive…”

“You did _what?!_ ”

“I didn’t use names! And I didn’t say that I knew for sure Colin was a wanted man! I just… suggested that his sloppy hiring practices could get him into trouble.”

“Ron!” Harry cried in exasperation.

“He really didn’t say anything that could have caused this,” Hermione said, flicking the paper with a finger. “Think about it, Harry. Whoever this ‘source close to the story’ is, they had to know who Malfoy really is all along. How else could the _Prophet_ find out?”

Harry buried his face in his hands, groaning.

“I think this was inevitable,” Hermione went on relentlessly. “Once Malfoy disappeared, someone was bound to start talking. Harry.” She tweaked his sleeve and waited for him to look up. “Who else besides Nero knows it was an Auror who kidnapped Malfoy?”

“No one. No one at the club, anyway,” he temporized. “Neville knows the whole story, of course, and the other blokes at the party could figure it out easily enough, once they see this.” He reached for the paper again, frowning down at the long article. “Does it say anything about Aurors or the stag party?”

“No. I read the whole thing.”

Hermione slid it out of his hands and Harry let her. He needed to know what it said, but he didn’t have the stomach to actually read it. After years of refusing even to look at the _Daily Prophet_ , he found even a small taste was enough to turn his stomach.

“Whoever leaked the story didn’t know many facts, just a lot of rumors and gossip.” She grimaced in distaste and added, “Most of it is ugly stories about what Malfoy does— _did—_ for a living and how he became the hottest attraction at the club. The writer milked it for all it was worth, giving all the most salacious details and going on about the fall of a pureblood prince.”

“Better off dead,” Harry muttered, his eyes on the headline.

“That’s the general idea—that it would have been better for everyone, including Malfoy, if he really had died at Hogwarts.”

Harry audibly ground his teeth, his anger simmering and his magic flaring dangerously. Hermione reached across the table again to clasp his arm in comfort and warning.

“Don’t let it get to you, Harry. You know what all this is worth.”

“Fuck all,” Ron chimed in.

“We only showed you so you could be prepared. If the papers have this, the DMLE won’t be far behind.”

Harry nodded reluctantly. Tearing his eyes up from the ugly headline, he looked from Hermione to Ron and said, “You’re sure there’s nothing in that story that will lead them to me?”

“Nothing,” Hermione insisted, “but you should also see this…”

Flipping open the paper, she revealed yet another large headline that read: **TRAIL OF DECEPTION**

The picture beneath it was of Phineas Boggs standing in the portico of Malfoy Manor. He looked worried and a bit sheepish, smiling convulsively and tugging at the ruffled cravat that swathed his many chins.

Harry instantly saw red.

“What does that fucking arse have to do with this?!” he snarled.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a startled look.

“The _Prophet’s_ reporter questioned him, looking for dirt on Malfoy” Hermione said. “Boggs now claims that he was living on the estate, calling himself Colin and working as a servant…”

“A servant!” Harry exploded out his chair and began pacing furiously, while magic boiled around him and sent random sparks flying. “A fucking _servant?!_ Do you know what he was actually doing? What that sodding bastard _made_ him do?!”

Both his friends watched him with wide, worried eyes but said nothing.

“If I ever get Draco out of this, get his name cleared, I’m going to _ruin_ that Boggs! I’m going to drag him through the courts, throw him in prison, take every Knut he ever made and give it to Draco as payment for what he suffered in that fucking house! And not just from Boggs! From all of them, right back to his _fucking father!_ ”

“Okay, mate,” Ron ventured cautiously, “I don’t know what’s got your wand in a knot, but we need to focus on the problem at hand. Just for now. Just ’til we’ve got Ferret safe. Then you can go mental and tear that Boggs into bloody scraps, for all I care.”

“What do you mean?” Harry stopped pacing to glare at him. “Why’d you show me that story, anyway? It’s not like Boggs could know anything about me and Draco and what happened at the club…”

“Maybe not what happened at the club, but he remembers you showing up on his doorstep, looking for Malfoy.”

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. It’s all in there.”

“ _Fuck!_ ” He dragged his hands through his hair, then down over his face.

“This is serious, Harry,” Hermione said, in her bossiest tone. “You have to move now, to protect both yourself and Malfoy. No one has connected you with his disappearance from the club, but it’s only a matter of time, now that your name has popped up. One hint that their Savior is involved with Draco Malfoy will send the Press into a feeding frenzy! And certain people at the Ministry will put the pieces together much faster than some hack from the _Prophet!_ ”

Harry swore again, more vividly than before, and snatched his wand from his pocket. He was halfway to the door when Ron called, “Oi, mate! What’re you doing?”

“Closing down the floo and tightening my wards.” Pausing in the doorway, he turned back to see Hermione half out of her chair, looking frightened. “How long ’til Kingsley figures out it was me?”

“Realistically?” She grimaced. “According to that first article, the reporter tried to get a statement from him, so he already knows at least some of the story.”

“It’ll take him time to confirm that you were anywhere near the _Horntail_ on Friday night,” Ron offered.

“Not with half the Department at the party with me. Okay, here’s what we do… I’ll take care of the floo and the wards. Hermione, do you know how to cast a Fidelius Charm?”

She shook her head reluctantly. “I could do some research…”

“Never mind. We don’t have that kind of time.”

“Why not just use Grimmauld Place?” Ron cut in. “It’s already got a Fidelius on it.”

Harry shrugged that off impatiently. “Too many people know the secret, including Kingsley Shacklebolt. And it’s in my Ministry file as my residence, so Robards could find it. Besides, I fucking _hate_ that house and won’t force Draco to stay in it!”

Rounding on Hermione, he said, “Remember all those spells we used to hide our campsite when we were on the run?”

“Of course.”

“I need you to cast those around this cottage. Right now. And any others you can think of that would repel anyone who might come looking for it.” When she just gaped at him, he growled, “Go! _Now!_ ”

Hermione snapped her mouth shut, gulped, and ran for the back door.

Ron followed Harry, as he strode down the hallway and bounded up the stairs. Rose stirred at the jarring movement, but only to stuff a fist into her mouth and begin munching happily on it. She did not cry or open her eyes.

In the sitting room, Harry approached the fireplace and muttered a spell. Green light flared, then abruptly went out. Next he turned for the window and the wards. Flattening his hand against the glass, he felt the magic pulsing through the house, mingling with his own and lighting up the power in his body. He closed his eyes to concentrate.

Harry knew these wards intimately, had designed and constructed them himself. It took little effort to alter them, though he had to be careful that he didn’t unravel protections he wanted while tampering with others. After a few minutes of work, he sighed in satisfaction and dropped his hand. He opened his eyes to find both Ron and Hermione standing behind him, watching him intently.

“Don’t worry. You can still get in,” he told them with a tired smile, “just apparate directly into the house. How about the Concealment charms?”

“All in place,” Hermione assured him. “Your Muggle neighbors may get a bit fuddled if they venture too close, but it won’t hurt them. And no magical person who doesn’t already know the cottage is here will be able to find it.”

Harry nodded his thanks.

“So you hide this place and repel anyone from the Ministry who tries to find it,” Ron said. “Then what?”

“Then I go on the attack!”

“Huh?” Ron looked baffled at that. “How?”

A grin spread over Harry’s face as the pieces fell into place in his head. “I go see Kingsley. I demand that he clear Draco’s name with the Wizengamot.”

“You tried that before and he wouldn’t do it. What makes you think he will now?”

His grin widening ’til it nearly split his face, Harry plucked the _Prophet_ from beneath Hermione’s arm and held it up where they could all read the headline. “Because now Draco Malfoy is alive, yeah? It says so, right here!”

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	9. Preemptive Strike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long to write this chapter! I needed a break from all the angst, so I worked on a humorous fic for a while, then Life slammed me (in a good way, but distracting). Anyway, it's finally done, and I hope it doesn't disappoint.
> 
> Thank you for the truly wonderful reviews! I couldn't keep going without them!

****“Harry! Come in!”

Harry checked on the threshold of the Minister’s office when he saw that Robards occupied a chair in front of the enormous mahogany desk.

“Potter,” the Auror said. His manner was not exactly hostile, but it was a long way from warm.

Harry nodded at Robards, then pried his feet loose from the carpet and crossed to Kingsley Shacklebolt with his hand out. “Thank you for making time to see me, Minister.”

They shook hands and Kingsley waved Harry into an empty chair at Robards’ side. “Nonsense, Harry, I always have time for you. And you’ve saved me the trouble of an owl.”

“You wanted to see me?”

His lifted brow and polite smile were worthy of Draco Malfoy at his most poised, and Harry was secretly proud of himself. Cool and collected. That’s what he needed to be. Robards was a complication, but nothing he couldn’t handle, and Kingsley would fall in line one way or the other. Harry was not above using force, if necessary.

Kingsley favored Harry with a glinting smile that said he knew exactly what the young man was playing at and sat back, hands folded over his midsection.

“Auror Robards was just expressing his concern that he couldn’t reach you, Harry.”

“But I sent you an owl,” Harry said to the scowling Robards.

“If that note was supposed to reassure me…”

Harry chuckled at that, sending a flush of annoyance up Robards’ neck to his face. “I’m sorry if I worried you, but I’m quite capable of taking care of myself. Sir,” he added belatedly.

“It’s not you I was worried about.” Harry gave him an inquiring look, brows up under his fringe, and Robards’ lips compressed in annoyance. “One of my Auror’s drops out of sight, just as a notorious Dark wizard returns from the dead. The timing’s a bit suspicious, don’t you think?”

 _Pillock,_ Harry thought bitterly, but he kept his expression neutral.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Oh, let’s see… First you turn up at Lucius Malfoy’s funeral—against my direct orders—and accost his widow. Then you join a party at a certain Knockturn Alley cesspit, where a young man suspected of being a fugitive Death Eater goes missing. The next day, you drop out of sight. No owls can find you, you’re not connected to the floo network, your London residence is deserted, and the one person who knows how to reach you is conspicuously absent, as well. Then we have Aurors searching the club for clues to our fugitive’s whereabouts, when you and I both know that I authorized no such investigation. Suddenly, the newspapers are plastered with stories about Draco Malfoy coming back from the dead, and _you_ turn up in the Minister’s office. Seems more than suspicious, to me.”

He crossed his arms and stared hard at his underling. “You may be a celebrity to half the Wizarding world, Potter, but you’re still just a junior Auror and you answer to me. So start answering.”

In that moment, he sounded so much like Snape at his worst that Harry had an ugly flashback to the Potions dungeon on his first day of class. It didn’t improve his temper.

“I beg your pardon?” He lifted a disdainful eyebrow, once again channeling Draco to good effect, and said in a voice as sharp as a Goblin blade, “I told you that I was leaving on personal business. I gave you instructions for reaching me in an emergency. I don’t see that I owe you anything else. If you disagree—if my years of exemplary service, the cases I’ve solved and the arrests I’ve made, without once trading on my _celebrity,_ have not earned me that much—then feel free to sack me.”

Robards’ face blanched, going from enraged purple to shocked white, in an instant.

“Either way,” Harry went on ruthlessly, “I have nothing to answer for and no more time to waste on your ridiculous insinuations.”

“Now, now, my boy,” Kingsley said in his deep, warm, irresistible voice, “let’s not get carried away. No one’s getting sacked.”

“We’ll see about that,” Robards muttered, drawing a chuckle from Kingsley.

“Threats, Gawain? Against the Savior?”

That shut Robards down cold and allowed Kingsley to turn his full attention on Harry.

“I would appreciate a few answers, Harry. As a friend. In the interests of clearing up a mystery and helping this Colin, whoever he is.”

“All right,” Harry agreed, dropping his hostile stance. “In the interests of helping an _innocent_ _man_ , what do you want to know?”

“Harrumph!” Robards snorted, then clamped his lips shut at a glance from Kingsley.

“I assume you visited Narcissa Malfoy to ask her about Draco.” Harry nodded. “Did she have anything useful to say?”

“No. She claims not to have seen or heard from him since the battle.”

“And you believe her?”

“I do.”

“Hm.” Kingsley sat back, eyeing Harry thoughtfully, one hand tapping idly on the arm of his chair. “She did not send you to Knockturn Alley in search of him?”

Harry allowed himself to smile, feigning an ease that he was far from feeling. “If I’d known Draco was in a Knockturn Alley brothel, I wouldn’t have waited for a stag party to go looking for him. As it happens, I found out the same way everyone else did, from this morning’s _Daily Prophet._ ”

Robards snorted again but held his tongue.

“You didn’t recognize him at the club that night?”

“I didn’t _see_ him at the club that night.”

“You were there, Potter!” Robards cut in furiously. “Half the Department saw you there!”

“I was there,” Harry agreed, “for about fifteen minutes. Long enough to order a drink and watch the first act. She was impressive, but not my cup of tea, so I skived off as soon as I could without offending Neville and Seamus. Honestly, why Seamus thought a man as shy and straitlaced as Neville would enjoy a place like the _Horntail_ , I don’t know, but luckily for me I was _not_ the groom and didn’t have to stick around for the whole show.”

“So you didn’t see this Colin perform,” Kingsley prompted.

Harry shook his head. “Now I wish I had.”

“He was kidnapped when the club was full to bursting with Aurors, right under your nose,” Robards said, “and you want me to believe that you—Harry Potter, the man who hates all things Malfoy so much that he can’t even say the name without cursing—had nothing to do with it?”

Harry gave him a level look. “I don’t hate all things Malfoy, and there’s only one name I can’t say without cursing. Fucking Lucius. His son, on the other hand, is an innocent victim of people and circumstances beyond his control. Including, by the way, his own fucking father. And if I had seen him up on that stage, I can absolutely guarantee you that I wouldn’t have left that club without him.”

“ _Where is he, Potter?!_ ” Robards snarled.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” He smiled tightly at the seething Auror. “That’s why I’m here.”

Kingsley cleared his throat. “You believe our missing Colin is Draco Malfoy?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

It was Harry’s turn to snort in disgust. “Between the pictures from the club and the interview with Phineas Boggs, I’d say it’s pretty fucking obvious.”

“You believe Boggs, too, then.”

“Oh, yes.” Harry’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “And if I were the Head Auror, I’d be investigating our good Broom Varnish Baron to find out why he hid a renegade Malfoy in his home for close to a year, then fed a pack of lies to the Press when it suited him.”

Robards goggled and blustered at that, while Kingsley hid a smile behind his hand.

“Mr. Boggs claims that he didn’t realize the boy in his kitchens was actually Draco Malfoy until after he’d left,” Kingsley pointed out.

“Right. Because a man who has generations of Malfoys hanging on his walls wouldn’t be able to spot Draco’s head of platinum hair a mile off.”

“Maybe he threw out all those old portraits when he bought the place,” Robards objected.

Harry gave him a small, tight smile. “They were all there when I stopped by. Row upon row of them, hanging all around the entryway, sneering down on me like they had just scraped me off their shoes.”

This seeming slip fired Robards with new determination. “So you admit you were there! Digging for information on Malfoy!”

“Of course I admit it,” Harry said impatiently. “I was looking for Draco! I’d been looking for him since he disappeared on the day of the battle!”

“Because you didn’t believe he was dead?”

“Obviously not.”

“And you wanted to remedy that!”

“Oh, for Fuck’s sake… Kingsley, do I really have to sit here and listen to this?”

“What did I tell you, Shacklebolt?” Robards hissed, overriding Harry. “I warned you, when he submitted that request to join the Unmentionables…”

“Warned him about what? That I’m a revenge-crazed lunatic, out to round up the last of Voldemort’s supporters and torture them all to death? I assume that’s why you turned me down. Or were you just afraid I’d find out that Fucking Lucius Malfoy was let out of Azkaban more than a decade early?”

“They way he talks about Malfoy should tell you everything you need to know!”

“I’ve heard him speak of Lucius before,” Kingsley replied, “and I know better than you do what inspires his hatred. A hatred that is well deserved, I might add, and does him no disservice in my eyes. So, if you will let me handle this, Gawain…”

Robards threw himself back in his chair and crossed his arms in a gesture of disgust, his protuberant eyes fixed on Harry.

“You know why I was looking for Draco,” Harry insisted, rounding on Kingsley again, “and you know perfectly well that I would never harm him!”

“I do,” Kingsley said, his expression suddenly weary. “Unlike the Head Auror, I do not fear for Draco’s safety at your hands, but I do fear for your career and your freedom, if you’ve done something reckless.”

“Reckless? Me?”

Kingsley’s eyes narrowed, but Harry held his gaze without backing down, almost daring him to press the issue. After a tense moment, the Minister relaxed and smiled at the younger man. “You have always maintained that Draco Malfoy is alive.”

“And I was right.”

“Very well, let’s say for argument’s sake that the man missing from the _Horntail_ is Draco Malfoy. What has happened to him?”

Harry shrugged. “He’s gone into hiding, is my guess. He panicked when he saw all those Aurors in the club and ran.”

“So, you think Draco Malfoy was working as a prostitute under the name of Colin Creevey, until he saw a party of Aurors in the club, panicked, and fled before they recognized and arrested him.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“And you came here today… why? To insist that we search for him?”

“No.” Harry smiled at the Minister, silently thanking him for the opening. “I want you to keep your word.”

Dark brows scaled up the other man’s forehead. “My word?”

“That you would clear Draco’s name, if he turned up alive.”

Robards made a strangled noise that both the other men ignored.

“Ah. I believe I said that you could bring him to me and I would do my best to help him.”

“I can’t bring him to you when I don’t know where he is. But together we can draw him out of hiding.”

“Harry…” Kingsley began.

“Don’t,” Harry said, very softly. “Don’t make me drag the Chosen One into this.”

“What does _that_ mean?” Robards grumbled.

Kingsley smiled faintly into Harry’s steady eyes. “It means that Mr. Potter is not above using his influence to get what he wants.”

“I am not.”

“And what is it, precisely, that you want?”

“The Wizengamot to throw out all the charges against Draco, to declare him a free man and a member in good standing of the wizarding community.”

“You’re so sure that the Wizengamot will agree?”

“They will if you and I tell them the truth. Once they do, I want you to make a public statement. I want it plastered all over the front page of the _Prophet_ and the _Quibbler_ and every other paper in our world, so there’s no way that anyone, including Draco, can miss it. Then I want you to get his family fortune back.”

“What in _Bleeding Hell…_!”

“Quiet, Gawain,” Kingsley cautioned. “Are you serious, Harry? The Malfoy estate was broken up and sold years ago.”

“Maybe you can’t get all the property back, but you know what it was worth and what was in the family vaults at Gringotts. All of that rightfully belongs to Draco. And Boggs won’t need the Manor anymore if he’s in prison where he belongs, so you can return that, as well.”

“You’re getting well ahead of yourself. I cannot promise you that the Wizengamot will drop the charges against Draco, much less that they’ll return his fortune. As it stands, he’s still a war criminal and a fugitive.”

“Which is what we’re going to fix. Now. Or I’ll go to the Press and start throwing my Chosen Weight around.”

“There’s no need for that…”

“No?” Pulling a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ from the wide pocket of his robe, Harry slapped it down on the desk so that the three Dracos on the front page were gazing straight up at Kingsley. “The last time we had this conversation, you refused to help me because Draco was dead and you didn’t have the time. Well, Draco is alive. There’s your proof. I want him free, and I want him home. Help me bring him home, Kingsley, or you’ll find out just how far I’m willing to go to get what I want.”

Into the fulminating silence that followed this declaration, Robards whined, “Will someone please explain to me what in Bleeding Hell is going on, here?”

Kingsley held Harry’s gaze for another beat, reading the depths of his determination, then he quirked a smile and said, in his deep, rich voice, “We are re-opening the case against Draco Malfoy.”

 

*** *** ***

 

No sooner had Harry apparated into his sitting room than Kreacher _cracked_ into existence beside him _._ Before he could catch his balance or his breath, the elf was talking in his bullfrog’s croak of a voice, bowing low and washing his hands in agitation.

“Master Harry, Kreacher is relieved to see you. Kreacher has been waiting for you to return.”

Harry eyed him in some surprise. The house-elf never came until summoned, getting a perverse pleasure out of forcing Harry to treat him as a servant, and he rarely betrayed any emotion other than sour disapproval. To have him pop up without warning and so clearly upset was disconcerting, to say the least.

“I’m back in time for lunch, as I said I would be. What’s the problem?”

“Kreacher is worried.” He rubbed his long hands together, then tugged at his drooping ears. “He does not know what to do. He hopes Master Harry will know better.”

The Knut dropped in Harry’s brain.

Only one thing could get the cranky, old elf into such a state—the health and welfare of his precious Family—and the only remaining member of that Family was in this house, under Kreacher’s care.

“Is something wrong with Draco?”

“Young master Malfoy will not speak to Kreacher. He will not eat what Kreacher prepares for him. He will not get out of Master Harry’s bed or move or even look at Kreacher!”

“Hmm.” Pulling off his dress robes, Harry shook the soot from them and draped them over the back of the sofa. “I thought he’d behave better for you than for me.”

The elf tugged at his ears more fiercely and croaked, “Kreacher thought this, too, but Kreacher has failed in his duty to Master Harry and his Family. Kreacher has not cared for the sole surviving heir to the Ancient and Most Nob…”

“Nonsense,” Harry cut in impatiently. “It isn’t your fault that Draco won’t eat. And I forbid you to punish yourself for it,” he added, throwing Kreacher a quelling look.

Kreacher bowed again, but whether he meant it as provocation or simply couldn’t help himself, Harry couldn’t say. He sloped over to collect the robes and smoothed them carefully over his arm.

“Kreacher will prepare Master Harry’s lunch and clean Master Harry’s robes and try not to shut his ears in the oven door.”

“Thank you. Is Draco’s lunch ready?”

“It is on a tray in the kitchen. Does Master Harry think he can get the young master to eat?”

“If I can’t, Hermione can.” He caught Kreacher grimacing and chuckled. “I’ll try to keep her out of it, for Draco’s sake, as well as your own. Have the tray ready if I call for it.”

With that, he left Kreacher to his muttering and puttering, and strode down the hallway to the bedroom. The door was shut, the locking spell in place, and the room beyond quiet. Harry grasped the latch to banish the spell. Then he swung to door open on silent hinges and slipped through it.

Draco lay curled up in the bed, his back to the door, very still beneath the thick comforter. His eyes were closed, but when Harry peered over his shoulder, he saw that his face was drawn and his breathing too quick for sleep. His hair was slipping free of its plait and fell around his face in a way that made Harry long to push it back, smooth the shining strands, stroke the pale cheek beneath.

Instead, he cleared his throat and said, in as light a tone as he could muster, “Stop playing possum, Malfoy. I know you’re awake.”

Draco’s only response was to curve his shoulders forward, huddling in on himself and away from Harry.

“Kreacher says you won’t speak to him or eat. You’ve got him in a right state. He’s about ready to start ironing his hands.”

Still no response.

With a sigh, Harry dropped into the chair that stood close beside the bed and gazed thoughtfully at Draco’s back. He thought they’d made some progress, with the bath and the soup and the photo. He’d sat in this chair for hours, holding Draco’s hand while he slept, letting the little spark of hope in him catch fire. Now they were back to this. Silence and starvation. Somehow, Harry had failed him again.

Hermione had been badgering him relentlessly about giving Draco back his power. Letting him set the boundaries. Returning him to normalcy. This sounded fine in theory, and Harry was more than willing to try, but how? How could he give Draco power over his own life, when all the power belonged to outside forces that threatened his freedom? How could he let Draco set boundaries, when his first impulse was to flee back into danger? And how could he make _any_ of this seem normal? Especially if Draco wouldn’t even talk to him?

With another sigh, he bent to pull the box of mementos out from under the bed. Maybe there was something in here to inspire him. Some way to reach Draco, as he had with the pajamas and the family portrait.

He sorted through the contents, discarding the newspaper articles about himself and the letter he’d written to Draco back in the Winter of their sixth year at Hogwarts. He didn’t want painful memories or reminders of their long separation. He wanted something comfortable. Something _normal._ Whatever the fuck that meant.

He found the two books, stacked neatly together, and lifted them to examine the spines.

Normal people read to each other, didn’t they? When one was ill and the other wanted to fill the time pleasantly? But not _Advanced Potion-Making_. He’d be buggered if he sat here reading potion recipes to the back of Draco’s head. That left Shakespeare.

Returning the textbook to the box and the box to the floor, Harry leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the mattress. He took a moment to finger the fine leather binding of the slim volume, the gold leaf pressed into it, then he thumbed through to the first scene.

He had never read or seen a Shakespeare play, the Dursleys not being much for culture and his own Muggle education having ended well before they reached Elizabethan Drama in the curriculum. As he scanned the first page of text, he realized that he recognized most of the words as English but had no clue what they meant when strung together this way. It might as well have been Sanskrit. But this wasn’t about him and his lack of literary education; it was about Draco and making him feel at home. Making him feel _normal._ So if Draco liked bloody Shakespeare then Harry would read it to him, and to hell with what the words meant.

With an inward shrug, he began to read. “The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. Prologue. Enter Chorus. The chorus says: ‘Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene…’”

Draco stirred at his first words, turning to peer over his shoulder at Harry. He listened in silence, face impassive and eyes veiled behind his lashes, until Harry had finished the prologue and turned the page.

“Act one. Scene one. Verona, a public place. Enter Sampson and Gregory of the house of Capulet, with swords and bucklers.”

“Potter.”

He broke off and shot Draco a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Hm?”

Draco twisted onto his back, still gazing enigmatically at Harry. “What are you doing?”

“Reading. I was just getting to the good part… I think. What are bucklers, by the way?”

“Shields. Why are you reading _Romeo and Juliet_?”

“Because it was in your box, so I assumed that you’d enjoy it.” He gestured with the book and asked, “May I?”

Draco nodded, and Harry began to read again.

“Where was I? Right, the bucklers. So, this Sampson bloke says, ‘Gregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.’ And Gregory answers, ‘No, for then we should be colliers.’”

He continued for a page or two, reading out the name of the speaker each time and frowning over the oblique language. Finally, when a whole mob of characters had turned up and they were all waving swords around—or that’s what he thought was going on—he lowered the book to glare at Draco.

“What is all this bollocks about coals and walls and biting their thumbs?”

“Dirty jokes, mostly.”

“And they’re fighting over dirty jokes?”

“It’s more than that. You have two families, the Montagues and the Capulets, who hate each other. Whenever they meet, they start throwing insults, then they fight.”

Harry cocked his head, a curious smile tugging at his lips. “You really like this stuff?”

“Not the way you read it.”

“I suppose you could do better.”

“Of course I could. A flobberworm could.”

Harry’s smile widened. “Excuse me for not reading Shakespeare up to your standards. Since when do you read Shakespeare, anyway? Wasn’t he a Muggle?”

“So what if he was? He’s the best writer in the English language. Possibly in any language. He obviously didn’t need magic.”

“Hm.”

He resumed reading, plowing through several more pages, but it was getting increasingly difficult to keep the characters straight. And pausing to identify each speaker broke up the flow of the language, which had begun to insinuate itself into Harry’s head like subtle music, touching him in ways he had never expected. Frustrated by the interruptions, he finally stopped worrying about who was saying what and just read it straight out.

Draco let him get away with that for a few passages of dialogue, then interrupted, asking, “Who’s talking?”

“Benvolio.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I can’t stop to name them all. There are too many.”

“Plays aren’t meant to be read like that. You need a different person to read each part.”

Harry gave him an irritated smirk. “Well, I haven’t got a whole troupe of Shakespearean actors, so either shut your gob and let me get on with it, or help me out.”

Draco gazed up at him for a long moment, eyes unreadable, then said, “I’ll help.”

Harry broke out in a wide grin. Holding out the book, he said, “Go on, then. Show me how it’s done.”

“Together.” He raised an eyebrow at Harry. “That’s how it works.”

For a dumbfounded moment, Harry just goggled at him. Then he gave a whoop of delight and bounded out of his chair. While Harry clambered onto the far side of the mattress and settled himself against the carved wooden headboard, Draco scooted up against his pillows. Harry was careful not to touch him as he held out the book between them, but Draco simply leaned into his arm to see better, giving no sign that he noticed, much less objected to, the contact.

“Here’s where I left off,” Harry said, pointing to Benvolio’s speech.

“I’m Tybalt, then.”

They started to read.

It was brilliant, Harry decided, sitting so close to Draco and sharing a book this way, saying the musical words he didn’t really understand, listening to Draco speak them back to him. The longer they read, the more relaxed they became, until Draco was tucked in close to Harry’s side and Harry had scrunched down to bring their heads nearly level. They each held one side of the book, Harry turning pages that Draco caught with his thumb, Draco pausing to explain the bits that Harry didn’t get.

And _fuck_ , Draco could read! Even with his voice soft and rough with disuse, his manner unnaturally subdued, he could make the poetry sing! Harry loved the sound of those words in his mouth and never wanted them to stop. But still he couldn’t help interrupting now and then, to ask a question or interject a laughing remark.

“Wait, who’s this Rosalind bird?” he demanded at one point. “Isn’t he supposed to be in love with Juliet?”

“Not yet,” Draco replied quietly. “First he’s in love with Rosalind.”

“Huh. Romeo’s a bit of a wanker, isn’t he?”

“A bit. He gets better, but he’s never quite up to Juliet’s standard.”

“So what does she see in him?”

Draco arched a silver-white brow at him. “What does Granger see in Weasley?”

That startled a laugh out of Harry that he turned into a snort.

“There’s no accounting for taste, Potter, and even the smartest person can hook herselfup with a… wanker.”

“Ron’s not a wanker!”

“I thought we were talking about Romeo.”

“Sure we were.”

They read on, not noticing the time or the way the shadows moved in the room, until Draco’s voice was so ragged that Harry couldn’t bear to listen to it any longer. He reached over to clasp Draco’s arm, cutting him off in mid-speech. Draco shot him a questioning glance. He looked faded and gaunt and weak, not at all like he should be educating someone in the intricacies of Shakespeare, and Harry instantly felt guilty for keeping him reading for so long.

“I think it’s time to take a break.”

“Don’t you want to know how Juliet falls for the wanker?”

“Later. You’re losing your voice, and I’m hungry.”

Draco promptly let go of the book and drew his arms in close to his body, but to Harry’s surprise, he did not try to pull away. He seemed resigned to Harry’s closeness. Maybe even comfortable with it. Throwing caution to the wind, Harry kept his hand resting on his arm and leaned close enough to feel silver-gilt hair tickle his face when he spoke.

“How about another bath? Kreacher can bring us a tray, and we’ll eat in the tub, like we did before.”

“You’re determined to make me eat.”

Harry chuckled, though there was no humor in Draco’s rasping voice. “Either you eat for me, or I get Hermione to bully you into it. What’ll it be?”

“A bath sounds nice.”

 

* * *

 

Draco had no natural resistance to Harry Potter in a bath full of sandalwood-scented bubbles. He knew as soon as he climbed into the water and sank back against the other man’s body that he was helpless. He would submit to being washed and shampooed and pampered and fed. He would melt under Potter’s hands, lie against his shoulder, and secretly ache for the clasp of the arms that were so careful not to touch him.

Potter had kept on his pants and t-shirt again, sparing Draco the caress of his bare skin, and he was grateful for it. He was completely at Potter’s mercy and too tired even to care very much. So he rested his forehead on his bent knees, closed his eyes, and let Potter wash his back, while ignoring the way his cock filled between his thighs at the other man’s closeness. He didn’t even have the energy to be ashamed of his desire.

When his hair and body were clean, he settled into Potter’s chest and propped his head in the hollow of his shoulder. Potter continued to stroke the wash cloth up and down his arms for a few minutes, just for the pleasure of it, then wrung it out and set it on the little table beside the tub.

“Hungry?” he asked softly.

To his own surprise, Draco realized that he was. He gave a soft grunt, letting Potter interpret it as he would.

“Kreacher!” Potter called.

The ancient house-elf appeared with a _crack_ and bowed ’til his snout touched his knees. “Master Harry called for Kreacher?”

“We’d like a lunch tray in here, please.”

Another bow, and the elf disappeared. Barely a minute later, he returned with a heavily-laden tray that he set on the chair next to the tub. His bulbous eyes dwelled on the two men lying so intimately together in the water, but he made no comment and didn’t linger for Potter’s thanks.

When he was gone, Potter banished the dish covers with a wave of his hand, then summoned a bowl, all without shifting his comfortable place against the raised end of the bath. Draco watched the bowl sail into Potter’s outstretched fingers, his brows raised.

“Do you even need a wand anymore?” he asked.

He felt Potter’s shoulders lift in a shrug. “The wand helps me focus my magic. I use it for complex spells and ones that require precision. And I always use it in public so I don’t draw attention to myself.” He bent down to bring his mouth closer to Draco’s ear. “Does it bother you when I do wandless magic?”

Draco shook his head.

“It really bothers some people, maybe because it looks like I’m showing off. But it’s really just easier. I meant to use a wand around you, so I didn’t spook you, but obviously I forget as often as I remember.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Here.” Potter handed him the bowl, and he saw that it was full of stew. “Drink that. There’s fresh bread to dip in it, if you like.”

He shook his head again and lifted the bowl to his lips. The stew was delicious. Beef and barley, with chunks of vegetable. Behind him, Potter had summoned a thick sandwich from the tray and was wolfing it down. Draco ate in small sips, wary of putting too much in his stomach after the hideous nausea and cramping of the last few days, slowly emptying the bowl. By the time he finished, Potter was polishing off his second sandwich and looking longingly at the tea.

He proved as adept at preparing the perfect cup of tea wandlessly as he was at summoning dishware. The cup that flew into Draco’s hand was exactly as he liked it, right down to the temperature. He drank it in appreciative silence, lying back into Potter’s shoulder with his eyes drifting closed and his body going slack. His cock was still half-hard, but he refused to think about it. He was relaxed. Even content. And he didn’t want to think about uncomfortable things like his ill-timed lust and all the ways that it was so completely wrong.

“Can I ask you something, Draco?”

Unease squirmed in his guts and his warm contentment fled. “Can I stop you?”

“Of course you can. We’re just talking, yeah?”

He pondered that for a moment, examining it for hidden threats and finding none, then said, grudgingly, “Yeah.” He swallowed, took another sip of tea, and rasped out, “So… what did you want to ask me?”

“Why did you take that Syrup of Poppies?” The question fell like lead on Draco’s chest, crushing the breath out of him. “Were you trying to kill yourself?”

For a moment, Draco couldn’t find enough oxygen to speak, and Potter went on in a rush, “Only, Hermione says that stuff is seriously toxic in its pure form, and you must’ve known that. You’re so good at potions…”

“I knew,” he cut in roughly. “I’ve brewed it myself.”

“Then you must’ve known what it would do to you.”

“Yes.” It came out as a soundless whisper.

“So, were you? Trying to kill yourself?”

“No.”

“Why did you take it, then?”

Draco closed his eyes.

He knew the answer to that question, but he didn’t know if he had the strength to say it aloud. To explain it to Potter, who was so good and strong and _sane_ that he couldn’t possibly understand. How _could_ a man like Potter understand how it felt to surrender your will along with your body, to sell yourself to a creature you despised for the price of a meal? And then to realize what you’d done only when it was too late?

Draco hadn’t been trying to kill himself the way Potter meant, but he’d certainly been trying to kill a _part_ of himself. The part remembered what it meant to be Draco Malfoy.

“Draco?”

“The water’s going cold.”

“Oh, sorry.” A surge of magic flowed through the water, heating it instantly and frothing up the bubbles into white peaks. “Better?”

In answer, Draco reached out to clasp Potter’s arms where they lay along the sides of the bath and pulled them around his waist. Potter gave a little grunt of surprise but willingly tightened his clasp. Draco laid his hands lightly over Potter’s and settled more securely against him.

After a moment, Potter said, “It’s okay if you don’t want…”

“The opium helped me separate myself from what I was doing,” Draco whispered, cutting him off. “When I started—when I sold myself to Phineas—I thought it would be like before, with my father, but I was wrong. It was… so much harder.”

“Why?”

He shook his head without opening his eyes. “Because I chose it? Because I didn’t have anyone but myself to blame? Because there was no way out, no Savior to slay my dragons and carry me away? I don’t know, but it was hell. Utter hell. And it got worse when I found out you were alive.”

“I would’ve slain your dragons and carried you away,” Potter whispered into his damp hair. “All you had to do was ask.”

“No. By that time, I knew what I’d become and that there was no going back. For awhile, I used Arithmancy equations to block out the worst of it, but that stopped working when Phineas started sharing me with his friends. It was like I was back with my father and the Death Eaters, being passed from hand to hand, but it was _my fault._ I couldn’t let myself think about it, but I couldn’t shut it out.”

He stopped to swallow the lump his throat, then went on, _“_ One day, a man came to me in the garden. I was tired and sore and I honestly didn’t think I could bear to have another cock up my arse, so I asked him to wait. Give me a day to rest. Instead, he gave me a sugar lump coated in lovely, bitter syrup—to heighten the pleasure, he said, and I suppose it did. It certainly made me horny, and my mind was floating off somewhere far away from the bench where he was fucking me bloody. It was… beautiful. I felt no pain. No shame. Nothing.”

“So you started using drugs back at the Manor?”

“The first time, yes. It wasn’t the Potions-grade stuff, but it did the job nicely. It let me do whatever Phineas and his friends wanted, even enjoy it, while my mind was off dreaming of… better things.”

“And that’s why Boggs threw you out.”

“Hmm. I started using heavily, selling my arse to his friend for those little lumps of sugar, then stealing money from his pockets to buy more. I was well and truly hooked. When he threw me out, he gave me just enough silver for a bus ride to London. I didn’t dare spend it on drugs. I needed to get somewhere I could hide. So I rode the Knight Bus to the Leaky Cauldron, stole a wand from a witch’s pocket to get through the wall into Diagon Alley, and hid in an empty storefront across from Borgin and Burkes. That’s where Nero found me.”

“Before you went through withdrawals?”

Draco shook his head. “I was alone in that shop for more than a week, with no food, no money, and no opium. I thought the withdrawals would kill me. Then I thought I’d freeze to death.”

“But you had a wand. The one you stole…”

“No. I didn’t dare perform magic with a stolen wand, so I used it to open the wall and tossed it back into the yard where someone would find it. Then I crept into my hole to die, only Nero found me first.

“When he took me in, I swore I’d stay clean. Being just another whore was easy, after what my father and Voldemort and Phineas put me through. I didn’t need drugs to shut off my brain and do my job. But then he put me onstage…”

Draco shuddered at the memory, his eyes clamped shut and tears oozing through his lashes. Potter’s arms tightened protectively around him.

“I hated being up there, hated _exposing myself_ that way. It was like every man in that room was fucking me at the same time, and I couldn’t get away. Couldn’t say no. And it wasn’t just my body. It was my _mind._ My _soul!_ They were _fucking my soul,_ and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it!”

“Is that when you started using again?”

He gave a jerky nod. “I had to stay clean onstage. Nero beat me if I didn’t. But I could get through the shows and all the men in between by telling myself that it would be over soon, that I’d be out of my body and back in my dreams. The last couple of men each night, when I was high, were always the best.”

“Fucking hell, Draco,” Potter breathed.

For a handful of minutes, they stayed that way—Draco huddled gratefully in the larger man’s arms with tears trickling down his cheeks, and Potter clutching him desperately to his chest—then Potter spoke again.

“Explain something to me.”

A fresh shudder of fear went through Draco. What hideous confession was Potter going to force from him now? What scab was he about to rip off his half-healed wound?

“How is it that no one recognized you?”

Draco almost laughed. After all the disgusting secrets he’d shared, _that’s_ what Potter wanted to know? Maybe it was the Auror in him, always working the case.

“Who would expect to find Draco Malfoy in a place like that? And if they did, who would care?”

“Okay, maybe at the club you could be anonymous, but what about with Phineas? He couldn’t afford to be caught harboring a fugitive, so why would he risk sharing you with his friends?”

“He was proud of me—of owning me—and liked to make his friends jealous. That’s why he didn’t use Polyjuice to disguise me. He didn’t like that it changed my body, so he used a charm to alter my face.”

“And that worked?”

He shrugged. “Some of them saw through it… the ones who recognized my voice, my hands, the way I sucked cock…”

“You mean,” Potter’s voice was laced with horror, “men who’d…”

“Had me before? Yes.”

“Phineas’ friends were _Death Eaters?_ ”

Draco huffed a humorless laugh. “No more than Phineas, himself.”

“Wait a minute. You’re telling me that Phineas Boggs was working for _Voldemort?!_ ”

“I don’t know how close he got to the Dark Lord, but he certainly had dealings with my father.”

“Dealings that involved buggering his son,” Potter ground out furiously.

“A couple of times. He wasn’t Marked, and I doubt anyone took him very seriously, but he obviously had something to offer that my father deemed valuable. I have no idea what. Then, as the war heated up, he got nervous and stopped coming round the Manor.”

“So no one on our side knew he’d been flirting with Voldemort. That _bloody bastard!_ ”

“Relax, Potter. It’s over and done.”

“It’s no such thing! That foul, little prick is living in your house! Poncing around the Ministry, spending his gold and buying friends! And all this time, he’s been entertaining wannabe Death Eaters by giving them turns with _Lucius Malfoy’s son?!”_

“To be fair, he hasn’t done that for a while.”

“I don’t fucking care! He is going to _fucking pay!_ ”

Draco sat, contemplating this, his hands still resting on Potter’s and unconsciously stroking them to calm the seething rage in the other man. “You realize that you can’t make Phineas pay without exposing my part in all of this. If he goes to Azkaban, so do I.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Potter growled, “except maybe back to your family estate as its proper owner, after I smoke the vermin out!”

“Potter…”

“Just shut it and trust me, Malfoy.”

Draco sighed and leaned back into the larger man’s embrace, his eyes falling closed. After a long minute of quiet, Potter’s arms softened and gathered him closer. Draco murmured, very softly, not wanting to shatter the warm, softly-scented peace, “You never change, do you, Potter? Still trying to slay all my dragons.”

“You know I will.”

Another minute of silence, then Draco said, “The water’s gone cold again.”

Potter gave a soft huff of laughter and a powerful surge of magic. The water began to steam.

“Thanks.”

“Any time.”

Draco settled himself more comfortably, his face warming into something perilously close to a smile. He felt lips in his hair, just teasing his ear, but chose not to mention it. Instead, he turned his head very slightly, leaning into them. Another breath of laughter tickled him, stirred his hair, prickled along his nerve endings and brought a real smile to his face. Luckily, Harry was behind him and couldn’t see it.

 

**_To be continued…_ **

 


	10. Hawthorn and Unicorn Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry for the delay in posting this one. It got away from me and turned out much longer than expected. But the next chapter is nearly done and I have some more art for you when we get to the right spot!
> 
> Thank you for the lovely, inspiring reviews! And thank you for sticking with me through the difficult bits!

****The house was quiet. Unnaturally so to Draco. He caught himself straining for the scrape of Jewel’s twisted foot and the clank of her bucket, or the grunts and thunks of Joachim working a customer in the next room. The giggling of the girls who lived at the end of the hall and always traveled in a pack. The rumbling bass of the bartender filtering up from the taproom below. Nero’s lisping, lilting tones and heavy tread. These were the sounds that had filled Draco’s life for years. Without them, he felt unnerved, uncertain and deeply alone.

He lay on the bed, staring up at the beams in the ceiling, listening to the silence. It was still early, the sun barely up, but he had expected to see Potter or the house-elf at his side when he woke. A greeting. A tray on the bedside table. A nagging, half-pleading reminder that he had to eat. Instead, he had awoken to silence and an empty room. He had crawled out of bed, had a slash, washed his face, tugged his hair back into a loose knot behind his neck, dug a clean sweatshirt from Potter’s chest of drawers, all without hearing any sign of life from the rest of the house.

Now, he was dressed and hungry and… lonely.

He was lonely.

Rolling off the bed, he padded over to the door to try the latch for about the hundredth time since Potter had brought him here. He was quite sure it was locked—it always was—but he couldn’t help himself. The stubborn twat in him refused to admit defeat and insisted on trying the fucking thing every time he found himself unguarded and able to haul his body out of the bed. He’d even tried it a few times when he couldn’t actually haul his body out of the bed. Once, he had passed out a foot from the door and Kreacher had found him there, huddled on the floor, covered in vomit and Salazar knew what else.

He’d made the poor, gibbering house-elf _promise_ that he wouldn’t tell his master about that one, even if he had to punish himself for it. Cowardly sodding bastard that he was.

This morning would be the same. He knew it. He was trapped in here until Saint Potter, the Savior of the Entire Fucking Universe, decided what to do with him. But he was hungry and he was lonely and he was a stubborn twat who never learned. So he put his hand on the lever and pushed.

It moved.

A heartbeat later, Draco was outside the bedroom door, staring around him in growing wonder. He stood at one end of a short, narrow hallway, dimly lit by a window at the far end. Two more doors opened off it, one to either side. A third wide doorway at its end revealed a room filled with antique furniture and dominated by a huge fireplace. Flames danced on the stone hearth.

Draco started toward that far room, his bare feet silent on the smooth wooden floor, his eyes taking in every detail.

It was a strange house. Strange and lovely. It felt old but totally unlike the other old houses he had known. Ancient wizarding families specialized in preserving the past long after it had lost its luster, and their homes were more often a monument to mouldering pride than to ancient grandeur. But this little cottage, while as old as many a Pureblood mansion, was snug and warm and welcoming in a way that Draco had never experienced before. The magic of it hummed in his bones and caressed his skin.

He passed the closed doors without daring to peek behind them and skirted a staircase with only a wary glance cast down at the stone-flagged passage below. Then he slipped into the room at the end. It was a large sitting room, probably built by knocking a couple of bedrooms together, and it filled the entire front of the cottage with four large, deep-set, diamond-paned windows that looked out on the garden.

All the lovely, warm strangeness of the house seemed concentrated here. The furniture looked like genuine antiques, but when Draco ventured to sit on one imposing Tudor chair, it was unexpectedly comfortable. Glass-fronted bookcases, a carved chest that supported a wireless and a collection of framed photographs, a settee with red and gold brocade cushions, a coffee table that looked as if it had come from Queen Elizabeth’s boudoir, and a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. Someone who loved this house had decorated it. Made it perfect and wrapped it in spells to keep it that way.

It was beautiful and so unlike the Harry Potter he thought he knew that he wondered if he’d stumbled into someone else’s home by mistake. And yet, it felt like Potter. Like his magic was living in the walls.

Draco moved cautiously about the room, careful not to disarrange anything or make a noise, until he reached the fireplace and spotted what looked like a pot of floo powder on the mantel.

Could it be? Would Potter really be that careless?

Peering into it, he saw the familiar fine, grey powder and excitement sparked in him. Without stopping to consider what he was doing, he snatched up a handful of the powder and tossed it into the flames.

“The Horntail!” he called breathlessly.

No flare of green answered him. No swooshing feeling. Just a fireplace full of stubbornly orange flames. They sputtered a bit, spat out a few sparks, filled the room with an acrid smell that made Draco sneeze, then settled down to the mundane business of burning.

His shoulders sagging, Draco returned the pot to the mantel and turned blindly away.

Obviously Potter would not let him go so easily. He’d been a fool to think it, even for the split second it had taken him to toss that powder into the fire. He belonged to Potter now—not the way he’d always dreamed, when he lay in the other boy’s arms and let himself believe in happy endings—and would only prolong his torment by fighting it.

He was owned. He was powerless. That’s what it meant to be the ghost of Draco Malfoy. He’d better get used to it, or he’d lose what little was left of his mind.

Draco found himself at the window, gazing out on a dreary scene. Winter had browned the grass, stripped the trees and turned the garden path to a muddy track. A church spire and a cluster of steeply-peaked rooftrees poking above skeletal branches marked the nearest village. Scattered trails of smoke against the pale sky betrayed the presence of other chimneys, other cottages. It was very like the countryside around his childhood home in Wiltshire, and Draco felt his throat close up tight at the thought.

 _Pathetic,_ he thought bitterly, as he fought threatened tears. _You’re a pathetic fucking whore, pining for a man who doesn’t even want you and a house where you were raped every other day for years. It would serve you right if the floo_ did _work and you ended up back in Nero’s bed. Because letting Nero fuck you and beat you and sell you to eight or ten men a night is so much better than being locked alone in Potter’s bedroom. Stupid fucking whore._

A soft sound from behind him jerked Draco out of his black study and around to see the very last thing he had expected. It was a cat, long and lean and sinuous, its white fur marked with pale ghostly-grey stripes, its tail weaving as it oozed across the room toward him. Draco watched it approach, his jaw hanging ludicrously open, until it stopped just in front of his toes and fixed him with very familiar eyes. It meowed once, imperiously, then sat back on its haunches.

Draco met its arctic stare for a long moment. “Who are you?”

“His name is Abraxas.”

That voice hit Draco’s body like a Stinging hex, making him flinch, stiffen, and draw back. His eyes flew to the doorway where Potter stood, looking rumpled and at ease, with one hand tucked in his jeans pocket and the other holding a cup of tea on a saucer. He smiled when he caught Draco’s eye, then he nodded down at the cat who still sat at Draco’s feet. “You can see why I named him that.”

Draco struggled to pull himself together, to remember that he’d done nothing wrong and was only looking around. He had nothing to fear from Potter, who was honorable to the bone and would not punish him without reason. But even so, he found himself backed up against the window, shoulders pressed to cold glass, body tensed for flight.

The cat cocked its head and delivered another admonitory meow that Draco felt he really ought to understand but couldn’t.

“You forgot to lock the door,” he said, his voice soft and plaintive in his own ears.

“I didn’t forget.” Potter loped into the room, halting by the settee to take a sip from his cup. “And you’re welcome to explore.”

“It’s a lovely house,” Draco murmured.

“Thank you. I spent a lot of time getting it just right.”

“Yes.” Draco hesitated, then ventured, “I can f-feel the magic in it.” The slight stutter betrayed his nerves.

Potter went on as if they were normal people, having a normal conversation, and Draco had contributed something meaningful to it.

“Most of the furniture is Black family relics from the attics at Grimmauld Place. Turns out the Blacks never throw anything away, even when they move house. They just shrink it all and pack it in trunks, so there’s old furniture and paintings and rugs and all sorts in that attic, going back generations. I pulled out the things that looked right, brought them here, then spent months figuring out how to make them comfortable. The Tudors were shit at making chairs you can actually sit in.”

When Draco didn’t answer, Potter cocked his head—just like the cat—and fixed him with bright, faintly wistful eyes. “Want some breakfast?” Still Draco didn’t answer. Potter twitched his head toward the doorway and urged, “Come on down to the kitchen with me. Kreacher’s made enough for an army. I think he’s starting to go senile and he sometimes forgets he isn’t at Hogwarts, cooking for several hundred starving teenagers.”

Draco didn’t know what to make of any of that, but he was hungry and Potter’s company drove out the cold, lonely lump in his guts, so he nodded and moved silently out of the room on the other man’s heels. The cat followed just as silently. Potter led him down the stairs to the ground floor, then along a straight hallway to the back of the house. The floors down here were stone and icy cold against Draco’s bare feet. He picked up his pace, hurrying into the enfolding warmth of the kitchen and perching on the nearest chair so he could tuck his feet up under him.

Potter must have noticed because an instant later, a Warming charm wrapped around his feet. The other man didn’t even turn to see what his own magic was doing. He bustled about the stove and counter, clattering pan lids and clinking china, his back to the table. When he finally turned, he held a bowl in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.

Plopping them down in front of Draco, he said, “Get that into you. There’s eggs and toast and kippers and just about anything else you can think of, but that should be easy on your stomach for starters.”

Draco looked down at the bowl full of thick, smooth porridge. It had a fat lump of butter and a generous handful of brown sugar melting over the top. His mouth began to water, and he picked up his spoon with something close to eagerness. This was the first time he could remember actually wanting to eat in… well, forever.

He had the first bite nearly to his mouth when he felt a weight land in his lap and looked down to see Abraxas perched there. The cat eyed him scornfully, flicked a withering gaze at the spoonful of porridge, then curled into a comfortable ball on Draco’s thighs, head averted from the unseemly sight of a pureblood wizard eating peasant food. He began to lick one paw.

“Ron says I should have named him Malfoy,” Potter remarked, his voice unexpectedly close. Draco glanced up, startled. Potter was sitting just across the small table, a heaped plate in front of him. “He says I’m not fooling anyone, that the cat’s just a replacement for you, and I should own it. He does look a good bit like you.”

Draco stared down into the cat’s grey eyes and tried to see himself there. Maybe once, before Lucius and Voldemort and Phineas Boggs and the rest. Maybe there had been a time when he viewed the world with such regal disdain. Now he was just hungry and lonely and afraid. And oddly happy to have the warm weight of a cat in his lap.

He stroked his fingers over the white fur. Abraxas—it really was a perfect name for him—turned to nudge his nose beneath Draco’s hand, demanding that he rub his head, so Draco obliged. The arctic eyes narrowed to slits of contentment and Draco very nearly smiled.

“Eat up before it gets cold,” Potter murmured.

Draco took a bite of porridge and felt the sweet, rich warmth fill his mouth. Then he really did smile, just for a fleeting moment, not long enough for Potter to notice he hoped. He was halfway through the bowl and not slowing down when Potter spoke again.

“How are you feeling?”

Draco’s eyes flicked to Potter’s face, then down again. He said nothing, just scooped up another spoonful of porridge.

“Do you want to read some more Shakespeare later? I have a meeting at the Ministry in an hour, but after that…”

This time, Draco let his gaze dwell on the other man. “Don’t you have to work?”

“Not today. I’m taking some leave.”

“Why?”

One black brow rose. “What do you think, you prat? To look after you.”

Draco turned his attention back to his porridge, refusing to be drawn in. After a quiet moment, Potter spoke again, his exasperation plain in his voice.

“Is this really how it’s going to be? You drift around here like a bleeding ghost, refusing to talk or even to look at me unless we’re in the bath together? And what is it about that bath, anyway? Is it some kind of secret confessional? The one place where you relax and behave like yourself?”

Draco paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth, thinking. What was it about the bath? What was it about hot water and sandalwood-scented bubbles, about Potter’s clothed body at his back and bare limbs bracketing him that made him feel so safe? So _human?_

“I’m not trying to trip you up, Draco. I just want to talk to you.”

Draco let his spoon fall. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, feeling Potter’s anxious gaze on him, then offered in a voice barely above a whisper, “Why are you doing this?”

Potter leaned forward, as if straining to hear or just to be closer to him. “Doing what?”

“Being so… careful.”

“Oh.” He sat back and began to fiddle with his teacup.

“You’re always so sure of yourself. So possessive. Taking what you want, making things happen. Like you were…” He broke off, thinking of the night at the club when Potter had burst in on him and dragged him away from his life in spite of Draco’s vocal protests.

“The night I found you?” Potter’s voice was low and rough—full of pain, Draco would have said, if he still thought he could read the other man. “I seriously fucked up that night. I know it. Now I’m trying to fix it. That means I give you all the power I can while keeping you safe, and I don’t touch you without your permission, even when I’m dying to pin you down on that bed and fuck you into the mattress. If I hadn’t treated you like a whore that night, we’d be lovers again by now. It’s my fault we aren’t.”

Draco blinked at him, his face carefully blank. “It isn’t your fault that I’m a whore.”

“You’re not.”

“What else do you call a person you pay to fuck? You paid for me, Potter. I’m a whore, and you paid for the right to fuck me into the mattress.”

“That’s not how I want you.”

Draco shrugged, his thin shoulder lifting in feigned indifference and his gaze sliding away from Potter’s. “How do you want me, then?”

“Willing,” Potter answered, very softly.

“I’m always willing. It’s one of my most salable skills.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t talk about yourself that way.”

Potter sounded angry and Draco had the momentary urge to retreat, but he controlled it. Stayed in his chair. Kept his gaze fixed on the table so he didn’t have to see those green eyes glaring at him. His hand trembled slightly where it rested on Abraxas’ back.

Another long moment of silence passed, this one more loaded than the last, before Potter spoke again.

“I have to go, but you’re welcome to stay here. Have anything you want to eat. Go anywhere you like.”

“Except out,” Draco said, his mouth running ahead of his brain, as per fucking usual.

Potter said nothing. Draco could feel his gaze burning through his skull. Finally, he gave in and looked up. Potter was still sitting there, still staring at him with those unbearable eyes, but his expression was sad.

“I’m sorry, Draco.” He did actually sound sorry. “I can’t let you leave, yet. It isn’t safe out there, and I don’t want you to go. This cottage…” He waved a fork around him in a random gesture. “The magic you felt… that’s all for you. I did it for you, hoping some day I’d have you here with me to enjoy it. And now that you are here, I don’t want to let you go.”

Draco opened his mouth, though he had no bloody idea what he was going to say. Luckily, he didn’t have to come up with anything because Potter overrode him.

“This isn’t how I imagined it, how I _wanted_ it, but you’re here. With me. Where you belong. And I won’t give that up. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here.”

“Including hold me prisoner?” Draco rasped out, longing and horror twisting in his throat until he thought he'd gag on it.

“No.” Potter pushed himself to his feet and turned to dump his untouched plate in the sink. “Not that. But for now, anyway, you can’t leave the house. The wards won’t let you through. Maybe…” He stopped, cleared his throat, spoke without turning to face Draco, “maybe after today, that’ll change.”

“What…?” Draco started, but Potter just strode out of the room, leaving him alone with his half-eaten breakfast, a snoozing cat, and about a thousand unanswered questions.

 

*** *** ***

 

The thread of gleaming silver-white slid from between dark strands of hair, clinging to the tip of Harry’s wand. He watched it stretch longer and longer, before breaking off and swinging down to dangle over the crystal flask he held in his other hand. With practiced ease, he guided the memory into the flask and flicked it loose from the wand tip. Then he stoppered the flask and handed it to the witch seated across the table from him.

She took it in blunt fingers, turned it, studying the shifting substance swirling inside the crystal, a thoughtful scowl on her square, homely face. Harry waited for her to scratch a label onto a strip of parchment and seal it to the outside of the flask before he picked up an empty one and prepared to retrieve another memory. This one was shorter, only a few inches of gleaming light oozing out of his temple and dropping into the flask.

“What’s this one?” the witch asked, as she took it from his outstretched hand.

“Fenrir Greyback.”

 _Draco Malfoy/Fenrir Greyback_ she wrote on the label, followed by the date and Harry’s initials.

The witch was dressed in purple Wizengamot robes, with a patch on the left breast thatidentified her as a member of the Special Commission on War Crimes and Reparations—or the Headhunters, as they were popularly known. Two other members of the Commission flanked her, while Kingsley Shacklebolt sat beside Harry with his own array of filled, labeled, sealed flasks on the table in front of him. After a long and contentious discussion of privacy rights, the emergency powers granted the Wizengamot in regards to Dark wizards and their prosecution, and the weight of evidence already compiled against the fugitive Draco Malfoy, both men had agreed to turn over certain of their memories for review by the Commission.

Harry had violently opposed this measure. Kingsley had been more open to the idea but still hesitant. The Head of the Commission, Madam Pauncefoot, had reminded them both that the alternative was to put Draco Malfoy on trial, at which point their memories would be taken per legal writ and viewed by the entire Wizengamot. In the end, Harry had agreed upon certain conditions.

“You’ll sign a binding magical contract, stating that the memories will be viewed only by members of the Commission and kept strictly confidential. If one whisper of what’s in them gets out, I’ll have your Commission shut down, your careers destroyed, and those responsible for the leaks in Azkaban. The terms of the contract will guarantee that I have that power.”

“That is entirely unnecessary, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pauncefoot had protested. “All investigations by the Commission are confidential, until such time as a case goes to trial.”

“You and I both know that’s a fantasy, and we’ve both seen what happens when your _confidential_ investigations are leaked to the Press. I won’t risk that. Not for myself, and not for Draco. My memories of him are extremely personal and would be highly damaging, if made public.”

“Mr. Malfoy is hardly in a position to make demands…”

“He isn’t. I am. And I have all the leverage I need, as you well know, Madam Pauncefoot, since you’re sitting with me right now. I also insist that once you close your case against Draco, you destroy all the memories you collect today, including Minister Shacklebolt’s.”

“You are making a lot of assumptions, Mr. Potter.”

“That’s because I know what’s in those memories.”

The contract now lay on the table in front of him, five signatures glowing with residual power on the parchment. None of the Headhunters had signed it happily, and when they felt Harry’s tremendous power suffusing it, their irritation had turned to outright resentment, knowing they were well and truly caught. But Harry didn’t give a fuck. All that mattered to him was those signatures on the page, binding them to secrecy and protecting Draco from their petty vengeance.

He didn’t like throwing his weight around, or his power, but in this instance he had no choice. His memories of Draco were more than personal. They were intimate. And they contained secrets that would destroy Draco, if they were widely known. The Vow, the rape, the scars Greyback had left on his body, the torment his father had put him through, even his comparatively innocent romance with Harry Potter were all incendiary. Harry despised himself for sharing them, even under such heavy restrictions, but Kingsley and Pauncefoot both agreed that it was the only way. And he had sworn to do what ever it took to free Draco.

The last flask filled, labeled and magically sealed, Madam Pauncefoot smiled in satisfaction and folded her hands on the table. “Thank you, Minister. Mr. Potter.”

She had mellowed considerably, now that she had so much new evidence arrayed before her in those crystal bottles. Harry guessed that she was licking her chops over all the potential crimes she could lay at the Junior Death Eater’s door, now that she had a clear view into his past. Little did she know what she was about to witness.

“We’ll review the evidence you’ve given us and make a decision about the case, then I’ll communicate that decision to the Minister.”

“Ah, there’s one more thing,” Harry interjected.

Pauncefoot’s gaze turned wary. “What is it, Mr. Potter?”

“I’d like you to open an investigation into Phineas Boggs.”

She looked startled at that. “Boggs? The Broom Varnish Baron? What in Merlin’s name do you imagine he’s been up to?”

“Consorting with Death Eaters. Oh, not recently,” Harry assured them, when he saw the Headhunters exchanging sceptical glances, “but I have it on good authority that he did business with Lucius Malfoy and made overtures to Voldemort himself.”

“ _Whose_ good authority?” Kingsley asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Harry grinned at him and shook his head. “It was off the record, just a casual conversation, so I don’t have any concrete proof. That’s what I want you to find.”

“You’re actually telling us that Phineas Boggs, that bootlicker who bought Malfoy Manor, was working with the Death Eaters?” the Headhunter to Pauncefoot’s left chimed in.

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Apparently, he’ll lick any pair of boots on offer, not just the squeaky-clean ones around the Ministry.”

“Hmph,” the Headhunter to her right grunted.

“Just dig around. Find out why he was so hot to buy Malfoy Manor after Voldemort had filled it with corpses. And concentrate on the months leading up to Voldemort’s takeover of the Ministry. That’s when I hear that he was hanging around the Manor, chatting up the Death Eaters and offering favors to Fucking Lucius.”

One of the Headhunters chuckled at that.

“We’ll talk to Robards,” the other said, “get some of your lot on it, but I wouldn’t count on them finding anything.”

“They will if they look hard enough.”

The Headhunters all rose from the table, Madam Pauncefoot collecting the flasks with a wave of her wand.

“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” she said gruffly. “Minister, you’ll be hearing from me shortly.”

With that, the Headhunters swept out, trailing purple robes. Harry made a valiant attempt to slip out on their heels, but Kingsley was ready for him.

“Ah, Harry my boy,” he said dryly, halting Harry in his tracks.

“Hm?”

“Do you have something you’d like to tell me?”

Harry smiled brightly at him, eyebrows up under his fringe. “Thank you for your help today, Kingsley. I know it went against the grain to sign that contract and basically accuse the Commission of malfeasance, but it was necessary. Even your memories, as professional and detached as they are, I’m sure, could blow Draco’s life apart.”

“I’m well aware of that and was happy to do my part. But that’s not what I’m referring to, as you very well know.” His eyes narrowed again, and the rueful laughter in them vanished. “Why are you trying to ruin Phineas Boggs, and who, if anyone, told you that he was connected to Lord Voldemort?”

“You know exactly why I want Boggs. He kept Draco away from me, from everyone who might have helped him, then he turned him out of his own house and left him with nothing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s Boggs’ fault that Draco ended up in that brothel. Everything he was forced to do to survive after he left the Manor—every way he degraded himself—comes back to Boggs.”

“You don’t know that’s what happened.” Harry just rolled his eyes in disgust and smirked at Kingsley. “All right, let’s say that you’re right and Boggs knowingly threw the Malfoy Heir out of his own house. That doesn’t make him a Voldemort supporter or even a sympathizer.”

“It makes him a cold-hearted bastard who deserves a stint in Azkaban to teach him a little compassion.”

Kingsley eyed him still more narrowly. “Harry, are you manufacturing evidence against Boggs to punish him for what he did to Malfoy?”

“Do you really think I’d do something like that?”

“For Draco Malfoy? Yes.”

Harry thought about that for a moment, giving it due consideration, then said, “Fair enough, but I didn’t have to manufacture anything. What I told you about Boggs is one hundred percent true.”

“According to whom?” Kingsley asked with dangerous softness.

Harry just quirked a smile at him and shook his head.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, my boy.”

“I’m slaying dragons,” Harry replied, cheekily. Then he added, “That reminds me. What, if anything, can we use to bring down that brothel-keeper? I know prostitution is legal in the wizarding world, and so is running a knocking shop, but where does pimping out your employees cross the line into human trafficking or exploitation?”

Kingsley gave him a wry look and patted his arm in a fatherly way. “One dragon at a time, my boy. Even the Chosen One has his limits, as you should know from hard experience.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got the might of the whole Ministry behind me, this time, not just a wand and a broom.”

“Leave it, Harry. Worry about, er, drawing Malfoy out of hiding and let the sleeping dragons lie, for now.”

“For now,” Harry agreed, “but you know me, Kingsley. I never let the dragons lie for long, whether or not they’re asleep!”

“I know,” Kingsley sighed, rolling his eyes and trying not to answer Harry’s insouciant grin. “Merlin help me, I know!”

 

*** *** ***

 

The next week passed in a kind of muffled stillness. Draco spent most of his time in his room—Harry had started thinking of it as Draco’s room within a day of his taking up residence there—but left the door open simply to prove to himself that he could. Abraxas stayed close to his doppelgänger, stretching out before the bedroom fire through the day and curling up beside Draco on the bed at night. Harry slept in the guest room, busied himself in his downstairs office, and relaxed in the sitting room but did not go into Draco’s room unless invited. Draco joined him for breakfast every morning, and the two men made quiet conversation over tea and toast. Some afternoons they read together, finishing _Romeo and Juliet_ and starting on a mildewed copy of _Macbeth_ that Kreacher had found at Grimmauld Place—the witches were a scream, but the play was brilliant. Otherwise, they seldom spoke.

Christmas was fast approaching, but Harry largely ignored it. He didn’t even remember that it was mid-December unless he ventured out of the cottage and saw the lights up all over the village or, worse still, braved Wizarding London. He met Ron for lunch in Diagon Alley a few times but wouldn’t venture into the Ministry where Robards could waylay him, no matter how much he longed to hound Kingsley for reports on his progress, and he always fled back to the privacy of the cottage the moment he’d shoveled the last bite of food into his mouth. He hated public places these days, with fawning admirers, avid reporters, and Christmas cheer harassing him everywhere he went.

This calm, if slightly melancholy state of affairs persisted until one afternoon when Ron and Hermione suddenly appeared in his sitting room. Harry heard the _crack_ of apparition and came out of the office to greet them. He found Hermione cradling Rose against her shoulder and Ron lugging a large cardboard box.

“Oi! Mate!” Ron called happily. “The Christmas Gnomes have arrived!”

“Gnomes?” Harry said blankly.

“He means elves,” Hermione supplied, with a grin.

Harry scratched his head, making his hair stick up in several directions. “What are you on about?”

“ _Christmas_ , you tit!” Ron said.

“Ronald!”

Ignoring his wife’s protests, Ron went on blithely, “This place is ruddy depressing and I’ve had enough of it. Nobody gets to sulk through Christmas on my watch. I’ve brought a tree, some evergreen boughs, holly, mistletoe…”

“Did you check for Nargles?” Harry interjected, earning himself an eye-roll from Hermione and a snort of laughter from Ron. “Seriously, Ron, which one of Luna’s creatures is eating your brain today? You know I don’t bother with that rubbish.”

Harry had stopped decorating his home at Christmas when he moved out of Grimmauld Place and left behind the centuries’ worth of stockpiled ornaments so beloved by Kreacher. He still went to the Burrow every Christmas Eve to celebrate with the extended Weasley brood and bought presents for his closest friends, but on the whole, he felt no desire to mark the holiday. The familial warmth and joy everywhere were too stark a reminder of all that was missing in his own life.

“Kreacher’ll never forgive you if you don’t let him tart the place up,” Ron insisted, as he dropped his box on the coffee table and pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Kingsley sent that by Ministry owl this morning. Asked me to forward it to you.”

Harry took the envelope, his pulse suddenly jumping with excitement.

“Sounded a bit shirty about you refusing to take his owls,” Ron added dryly, “and Robards is in a right state.”

“Sorry about that,” Harry said absently, still turning the envelope in his hands without opening it.

“If you were really sorry, you’d send the poor blighter an owl and tell him when you’re coming back to work.”

“I would if I knew.”

Ron ignored this sour retort, absorbed in his project of decking Harry’s cottage out in Christmas trim. He began marching about the sitting room, muttering under his breath and moving the heavy Tudor furniture about with his wand, while Hermione curled into the farthest corner of the settee and unbuttoned her blouse to nurse Rose. She draped a blanket over her shoulder to spare Harry’s blushes, got the baby settled, then shot a compelling look at Harry and raised an eyebrow.

“Well? What does Kingsley say?”

Harry hesitated, suddenly nervous about what he’d find in that envelope. What if they had failed? What if the Wizengamot insisted on bringing Draco to trial? What if…?

“Fuck it,” he muttered and tore it open.

Two pieces of parchment spilled out, Harry catching them before they could flutter to the floor. Then he turned his back on the cheerful chaos wreaked by his friend to study them. The smaller sheet was a brief note from Kingsley that read:

 

_Dear Harry,_

_This notice will appear in tomorrow’s_ Daily Prophet. _I hope it meets with your approval. Of course, neither Madam Pauncefoot nor I can control what else they print, and I should warn you that Barnabas Cuffe has been busy. He’s had reporters digging into Malfoy’s past and interviewing anyone they can find who has ever met him. I gave a lengthy interview to Dennis Creevey and made a short speech in the Atrium, both of which should help spin the story in Malfoy’s favor. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do._

_I would very much like to speak with Mr. Malfoy now that he is a free man. Please tell him as much, if your paths should cross._

_Your Friend,_

_Kingsley_

 

Beneath this note was a larger, stiffer sheet of parchment with lines inked across it in a neat, flowing script. Harry read them carefully, parsing every word of the formal statement, but his heart was already beating erratically and his eyes blurring with relieved tears. Kingsley’s note made it plain. The Wizengamot had accepted the evidence provided by the two most respected wizards of the day and done their duty.

Draco was free.

His knees suddenly turning to water, Harry collapsed onto the settee next to Hermione and held out the two pages to her. As she took them, he let his head fall back and his eyes droop closed.

Draco was free.

“You did it, Harry,” Hermione said, pride and happiness thrumming in her voice. “This is wonderful. I can’t believe you _did it._ ”

He cracked open his eyes and turned to look at her from beneath his lashes. “Always the tone of surprise.”

“Nonsense! You always manage to accomplish what you set out to do, no matter how impossible it seems. I just don’t know how you managed this one, with all the bad feeling toward Death Eaters and Dark wizards still gripping the Wizarding world, and all the evidence they had piled up against Malfoy.”

“That was all rubbish.”

“Yes, but he did actually _do_ all those things. So unless you could prove he was controlled by the Vow…” At Harry’s sardonic look, her eyes widened. “You didn’t! _How?_ ”

He shrugged, his cheeks darkening in embarrassment. “I gave them some of my memories. Kingsley and I both did.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open.

“I know. It was a ruddy awful thing to do—letting those Headhunters see me and Draco together, letting them hear the things we said to each other—but if he’d gone to trial, we’d have been forced to hand them over anyway, and then they’d have been on public record. This way, I controlled what they saw and what they did with the memories once they had them.”

She looked deeply impressed but still a bit worried. Harry sympathized. He got knots in his stomach every time he thought about those crystal flasks and what they held.

“What now? Are you going to tell him what you did?”

Harry’s flush deepened. “I don’t know. Not right now, not the way he is, but maybe later. If I think he’ll understand.”

“He isn’t any better?”

“Define ‘better’,” Harry said glumly.

Before Hermione could respond to this, they were interrupted by a splintering crash and a string of curses from Ron. Harry jumped to his feet and turned to see an enormous fir tree standing in front of the windows and filling half the room with its stiff branches. The remains of a brass lamp with a blown-glass bowl lay in shards beneath it, and the pictures on top of the chest had disappeared into the mass of needles. Ron was trying to steady the tree and slide it into a better position with his wand, while it threatened to swallow more pieces of furniture.

“Bloody hell!” burst out of Harry, as the tree swayed dangerously.

“Goodness!” Hermione cried and ducked out of the way of a sweeping branch. “What are you doing, Ron?”

“It needs to be a foot to the right…”

“It needs to be a foot shorter,” Hermione scolded, “at least!”

“Rubbish. No such thing.”

“Er,” Harry ventured, his eyes on the top of the tree where it gouged into the ceiling and brought flakes of plaster sifting down on it like snow, “I think she’s right, mate.”

“Huh?” Ron followed Harry’s gaze, saw the mess he was making, and cursed again, still more vividly.

“Why don’t you shrink it?” Hermione suggested.

“That’ll make it lopsided.”

“Not if you do it right. Shrink the whole tree, evenly, and it will fit in the room quite nicely.”

“Or we could move it down to the parlor,” Harry suggested. “The ceiling is higher down there.”

Ron brushed that off with a grimace and a shake of his head. “You never use that room. This is where you always sit, so this is where the tree belongs. Only, what’s the point of a Christmas tree you never see?”

“What’s the point of one, period?” Harry muttered, earning him a huffy look from Ron.

“You want to keep your house-elf happy, don’t you? That reminds me, I need to talk to Kreacher about getting some of the better ornaments from Grimmauld Place. I brought a few of our extras, but not nearly enough for this beauty.”

“Shrink the tree before you go running off after Kreacher,” Hermione advised.

“Right. Yeah.”

A wave of Ron’s wand, and the huge tree began to shrink. At Hermione’s urging, he kept going until its top was more than a foot below the ceiling beams and there was room to walk between the settee and its lower branches.

“Much better,” she declared, and Harry heartily agreed.

“Spoilsports,” Ron muttered, but his lopsided grin took the sting out of it. Pocketing his wand, he stood looking about the wreckage of Harry’s lovely room with marked satisfaction. “Kreacher!”

The house-elf apparated noisily into the middle of the room and swept it with a sour glare. “Master’s friend called for Kreacher?”

“Yes. We’re decorating the house for Christmas, and we thought we’d like some of the nicer ornaments from Grimmauld Place to spruce the place up. What d’you think? Can you find us some for the tree?”

Kreacher’s eyes fell on the tree and brightened. “A Christmas tree?”

“Right there,” Ron said proudly, waving at the majestic fir.

While Ron and Kreacher conferred about what decorations were suitable for Master Harry’s tree, Master Harry himself set about mending the broken lamp and scarred ceiling. He quietly reassembled the room as far as possible, then began rooting absently through the things Ron had brought. After a moment’s consideration, he waved a hand and sent evergreen garland flying up to drape itself along the mantelpiece.

Hermione watched this, smiling to herself, then murmured, “It’s lovely, Harry.”

He shrugged and nestled some holly among the needles.

“I know Ron kind of bullied you into this, but I’m glad you’re letting him do it.”

“Why’s it matter to him so much?” Harry asked, as he tied fat, red ribbon into bows with his magic. “Only, he’s never bothered about it before.”

“But he has,” she said softly, “he just didn’t want to push you. Now that Malfoy’s back…”

Harry broke off and turned to look at her, the ribbon promptly falling into a tangle at his feet. “This is for Draco?”

She shrugged. “He won’t say it, but I assume so.”

“I thought…” Harry sat down beside her again, his eyes dwelling on her hands as she pulled a sated Rose from beneath the draped blanket and settled the little body against her shoulder. His expression was distant. “He hasn’t asked to see Draco, never even mentions him if he can avoid it. I thought maybe he was angry…”

“Maybe a little,” Hermione said, her voice so low that it barely carried as far as Harry, “but I think he’s more frightened than anything. That room at the club really upset him.”

“It was bad,” Harry agreed.

“It convinced Ron, like nothing else could, just how awful things have been for Malfoy. He was angry at first that Malfoy didn’t come to us for help, but then he was just hurt and truly frightened of what had happened to his friend.”

“Does he talk about Draco with you? Ask about him at all?”

She shook her head and Harry sighed.

Rose let out a tremendous burp, drawing a gurgle of laughter from Hermione and a grin from Harry. Then she began to babble happily at her mother.

“Right, Rosie?” Ron crowed, bounding over to them. “It’s bloody brilliant! Want to help Daddy put up the ornaments?”

He scooped the baby out of Hermione’s arms and carried her over to the tree. Harry began rooting through the box that Ron had brought again until he located a smaller box of ornaments that he expanded to its proper size. Laying it open on the table, he dived back in to find another and another. And as he worked, more boxes appeared in stacks around the room. These were ancient and dusty, but when Harry pulled the lids off, he found them stuffed full of elegant, opulent, ridiculously expensive ornaments. The best of Grimmauld Place, courtesy of Kreacher, he guessed.

Soon, tissue paper, ribbon, glass balls, tiny candles, and scraps of gold foil were scattered all over the rug and settling into the cushions of the chairs. Boxes cluttered the floor and made walking hazardous. Rose was gabbling and grabbing at every shiny object that came under her eye, and Ron was bossing Hermione around in a way that Harry rarely heard.

“No, no, not like that! The little ones go at the top, like that! Honestly, ’Mione, were you raised by wolves?”

“No, by dentists,” she retorted.

“Who obviously didn’t know shite about decorating trees!”

At that moment, a sleek, white form came slinking into the room, picking its way through the mess on the floor. A sharp meow brought Harry’s attention down to the cat, and he watched as Abraxas stuck his nose into the nearest box of ornaments. One sniff, and he pulled away, then sat down to lick his paw in a way that said he had nothing to do with this insanity.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked the cat. “Not up to your standard?”

Ron peered over his shoulder and chuckled. “Snobbish little beast.”

“Let’s see if he likes these better.” Harry plucked a beautiful glass ornament from one of Kreacher’s boxes and held it down in front of the cat.

Abraxas regarded it for a moment, then reached out a paw to touch it. A few careful pats and he rolled it from Harry’s palm to the floor. Then he took the gold ribbon threaded through its top in his teeth and carried it under a chair, where he sat down with it between his paws.

Harry laughed. “He’s such a Malfoy!”

He felt Ron stiffen, turned to see him freeze for a moment with one hand stretched toward the tree. Then abruptly he relaxed and began moving again. He did not look at Harry when he said, “Another ferret-faced git with attitude.”

A sudden noise from the doorway brought Harry around with a start to see Draco standing at the top of the stairs. He was dressed in his usual hospital wing pajama bottoms, with a badly-stretched Weasley jumper that sported a lopsided Snitch on its front hanging to the middle of his thighs. The oversized clothing, together with the hair spilling down past his waist and his wary eyes, gave him the look of a lost, half-starved child.

Harry started toward him, and Draco drew back a step, pressing himself against the bannister. He fixed Harry with those wide, panicked eyes for a moment, the turned to go. An unexpected voice halted him.

“Ferret?” Harry looked behind him to see Ron standing by the tree, Rose in one arm and a forgotten ornament in the other hand, staring at Draco with an unreadable look on his face. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Draco gave him a look that was frankly terrified and waved vaguely toward the bedroom at the end of the hallway. “I’m just… I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“What’ll _bother_ me is you skiving off and leaving me with only these two useless tossers to help with the tree.”

Draco looked uncertain but he didn’t flee. His eyes jumped from face to face, widening still more when they touched Rose, and his fingers pulled at the sleeves of his jumper. Harry recognized the gesture as the one he’d used when Voldemort was tormenting him through the Unbreakable Vow. It made his heart clench.

“Please, Draco,” Hermione said, at her softest and most compelling, “join us.”

He took a step toward her. Then another. He was standing in the doorway, still tugging on his sleeves but no longer looking as if he were ready to bolt.

“I know, you’re thinking you’ll get stuck with the shite jobs,” Ron said, turning back to the tree with a forced casualness, “like spelling the candles to the branches. But I’ll leave those for Harry. He needs to learn the proper way to decorate a wizard’s tree.”

“I have decorated a tree before, you know,” Harry put in, trying to help Ron ease the tension in the air.

“So prove it. Conjure me up some garland and get the candles attached to their foil trays.”

Draco was in the room now, drifting toward the chair where Abraxas was still lounging. He sat down and tucked his hands under his thighs. It made him look even younger and more fragile.

Hermione noticed how his eyes followed Rose, and a smile tilted her lips. Plucking the baby from Ron’s arms, she returned to her seat on the settee, facing Draco, and settled Rose so that she sat back against her body.

“This is Rose,” she said quietly.

Draco stared at the baby, then nodded. “How old?” he asked, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Nearly five months.”

When Draco said nothing to this, Hermione spread the baby blanket on the floor at her feet and laid Rose down on it. The baby let out a squeal of delight, rolled onto her tummy, and pushed herself up on her hands. Her head, with its mop of ginger curls, turned toward Draco and a smile lit her face. She squealed again in that high-pitched baby voice that could cut through walls and eardrums alike. In answer, Abraxas left his place beneath Malfoy’s chair and stalked over to her. She met him with a babble of meaningless words and a damp, grasping hand that the cat easily evaded.

“For reasons we have not yet discovered, Abraxas likes her,” Harry said.

“He likes her because she’s brilliant,” Ron said, sounding affronted, “obviously!”

Hermione laughed brightly. Draco didn’t smile, but the rigidity drained from his face, and he pulled one hand from beneath his leg to shove his hair back in an automatic gesture. Harry hid his own smile by diving headfirst into a massive box full of Black family ornaments. He came out with a stack of smaller boxes that he stood on the floor.

“Candles, mate!” Ron called from somewhere deep inside the branches of the tree. “Don’t think you’re getting out of it!”

“Right. Candles. Where are the candles, again?”

Hermione flicked her wand and sent a stack of four boxes flying into his hands. “Half of them are rolling around on the floor.”

“Yeah, I kicked over the pile,” Harry said with a sigh. “What a sodding mess.”

“Honestly, Harry. In front of Rose? And when we’re putting up a Christmas tree?”

He shrugged. “It’s still a sodding mess… thanks to your sodding husband!” he added, much louder and in Ron’s direction.

That brought Ron out of the bowels of the tree. He was standing on a ladder now—where he’d gotten it, Harry had no idea, or how he’d crammed it into the space between the three and the settee—and seemed to be wrestling with a garden gnome in a tutu.

“You’ll thank me when it’s done. Bloody hell!”

“Ronald,” Hermione sighed.

“This ruddy thing bit me!”

“Why did you bring a gnome, anyway? Why not put a perfectly good angel on the top? Or a star? They don’t bite.”

“It’s tradition.”

Harry didn’t need to ask how one surly gnome on the top of a Weasley Christmas tree years ago had become a tradition that slopped over into the extended family and friends. It had been Fred’s stroke of evil genius the first time. Now it was a way to remember their dead.

Ron whacked the gnome with his wand, making it go rigid, then caught sight of Draco huddled silently in his chair. “Don’t just sit there, Ferret. If you aren’t going to help decorate, then how about sorting those old ornaments? Find us some good ones in amongst all the manky rubbish.”

Draco hesitated for a moment, then he pulled a stack of ornament boxes closer and lifted the lid off the top one. When he bent over it, his hair fell to mask his face, so Harry couldn’t tell how it affected him to see all those old, family heirlooms. He stared into the box so long that Harry suspected he was actively trying to hide, but then he abruptly pulled out two ornaments.

They were clear glass balls with a few bright points of light floating in them. The lights were placed irregularly and were of slightly different sizes and colors, floating in the little globes like…

“Stars?” Harry asked suddenly. “Are those stars?”

“Constellations,” Draco murmured.

“Oh, how lovely!” Hermione breathed. “Do you know which ones they are?”

Draco handed her one of the balls and watched her turn it in her hand.

“That’s Orion!” she said, a smile lighting her face.

Draco nodded.

“Are they all Black family names?” Harry asked. “Is Sirius’ in there?”

Draco studied the contents of the box for a moment, then pulled out another ornament and handed it to Harry. “Canis Major.”

“That’s brilliant,” Harry breathed, studying the tiny, floating stars with shining eyes. “What about Draco?”

This time, he did not have to fish in the box. He merely held out the one in his hand to Harry without looking at it. Harry took the ball from him, then turned and hung both the Canis Major and the Draco constellations on his tree with something close to reverence in his touch.

Now it was really his tree. Now it felt right having it in his home. Sirius and Draco, family, men he loved with all his heart, hanging together from the sweeping branches.

The decorating proceeded apace, with Ron and Hermione hanging ornaments, while Draco sorted the old Grimmauld Place boxes and Harry wrestled with the tiny candles. Rose lay on the floor, gurgling at Abraxas and drawing laughs from her parents when her cuteness became too much to bear in silence. Ron was in a rollicking mood, singing carols as he worked and threatening to put a suit of armor in Harry’s entryway that he could charm to sing round the clock.

Harry was using Sticking charms to attach a little candle to the tip of each branch, when Ron suddenly said, “Oi, Harry, did you see the _Prophet_ this morning?”

A prickle of warning and annoyance went down Harry’s spine. No good ever came from that rag, and Ron knew it.

“No.”

“Phineas Boggs is on the front page.”

Harry could almost feel Draco stiffen from across the room. _Fuck_ , he thought, _fucking shut it, Ron._ But Ron didn’t hear him.

“Fat bastard’s under investigation for his wartime activities. Robards has got a team on it, digging into all his business dealings, back to when Voldemort was on the rise. They’re saying he could end up in Azkaban, if it’s true that he was colluding with Old Voldy.” He looked over a branch, eyes gleaming at Harry. “He’s going down, mate, just like you wanted.”

Before Harry could respond to this, Draco lurched to his feet and headed for the door. Harry turned to follow, but Ron’s hand on his arm stopped him just long enough for the other man to move past him. Harry watched, tensed and frowning, as Ron strode across the room, calling, “Hang on, Ferret.”

Draco hesitated at the top of the stairs but kept his head averted. Ron reached him, put a hand on his arm, tried to turn him but Draco refused to move.

“Come on, Ferret. Come back.”

“I… I need to…” Draco started, waving vaguely toward his bedroom with his free hand.

“I’m sorry I opened my gob.”

Draco shook his head without looking at Ron.

“Hey.” The taller man finally managed to turn Draco to face him and clasped his shoulders. “It’s okay. You can go, I just… I need to say I’m glad you’re back.”

Then he pulled Draco into his arms, enveloping him in a hug, and said in a voice roughened by emotion, “I missed you, you bleeding rodent.”

Draco froze, caught totally off guard. After what felt like an age, he lifted a hand to brush Ron’s ribs—a single touch, then down again. When Ron let him go, he stepped back and dropped his head so that his hair masked his face.

“Don’t hide from us, mate,” Ron said.

Draco nodded once, turned, and padded down the hallway in his bare feet.

Harry waited until he heard the bedroom door shut, then he dropped onto the settee and buried his face in his hands. Hermione moved up behind him, her hands coming down on his shoulders. He groaned softly.

“Oh, Harry.”

“Is he always like that?” Ron asked, as he ambled back into the room.

Harry lifted his head. “He’s better when it’s just the two of us. Sort of.”

Hermione came to sit beside him. He saw the determination hardening her face and felt his stomach clench. “You know what you have to do, Harry.”

“What?”

“Give him back his power.”

“I’ve been _trying!_ ” Harry cried. “You have no idea! I’ve done everything you said, everything I can think of…”

“Have you given him his wand?”

Her words stopped him dead and brought his heart up in his mouth.

“You still have it, don’t you?”

His throat worked to get the word out. “Yes.”

“Well, then, that’s the answer. That’s the power I’m talking about.”

“I can’t. He’s still so fragile, so wounded…”

“He’s a wizard, Harry. A wizard without a wand, which means a wizard without power. If you really want him to heal, you have to give him back that power. Make him whole again.”

“And if he uses it to destroy himself?”

Her face tightened. “He’s a grown man. And a free one, thanks to you and Kingsley. If you love him, you’ll let him go, Harry, and if he loves you, he’ll stay.” She hesitated, then added, “I don’t think you have a choice.”

 

 

*** *** ***

 

It took Harry two days to talk himself into it. He knew Hermione was right, but he couldn’t bear the thought that she might be wrong. It was a rare occurrence but known to happen, and Harry couldn’t stake his future, his happiness, his very sanity on Hermione Granger’s infallibility.

Could he?

Over the days, he quietly unlocked the floo, reset the wards and banished the spells that hid the cottage from passersby. He said nothing to Draco about these changes, but he also let him wander free about the house, telling himself that he wouldn’t stop the other man if he stumbled across an open door or working floo.

Mid-afternoon on the second day he gave in and opened the old Hogwarts trunk that stood in the corner of his study. Buried beneath his old robes, he found a slender piece of wood that warmed happily to his touch. It knew him instantly and almost leapt into his hand. Harry got up and carried the wand over to his desk. Settling back in his chair, he turned it between his fingers and studied its familiar shape.

Hawthorn and Unicorn Hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy. The wand that had won him the allegiance of the Elder wand and defeated Lord Voldemort. Draco Malfoy’s wand… maybe.

Harry didn’t honestly know if the wand would remember Draco or would serve him properly, if it did. Harry had taken it from him by force—no matter how willingly Draco might have given it to him, had he had the time to ask—claiming its allegiance. What would happen when he gave it back? Would the wand recognize its old master? Would it welcome Draco’s hand and warm to his magic?

There was only one way to find out.

Tucking the wand into his pocket, Harry left the office in search of Draco. He found him in the sitting room, which was now beautifully decked out for Christmas and dominated by the glowing, glittering tree. Draco was curled in one corner of the settee, his back to the fire, staring blankly past the tree and out a window. His expression was as gloomy as the prospect outside the glass.

Abraxas sprang down from his place at Draco’s feet and stalked over to Harry, drawing Draco’s attention. He turned to look at Harry, then stood, unconsciously tugging at his sleeves. Harry saw that he was barefoot and wearing his flannel pajamas, as usual. He had donned a grey sweatshirt, bleached nearly white and stretched to half again its original size with wear, and had tied his hair back with a scrap of Christmas ribbon. The long strands were slipping loose to fall around his thin cheeks. Harry had to fight the urge to push them back.

“Hey, Draco,” he said uncertainly.

Draco just looked at him. They weren’t eating breakfast, reading Shakespeare, or in the bath, so Harry knew better than to expect a response.

“Umm…”

He slid his hand into his pocket and twirled the wand. It warmed to his touch and he felt a moment’s regret at the thought of giving it up. It liked him. It wouldn’t want to go to another, even someone it knew. Then he quashed that thought and straightened his shoulders.

“I have something of yours. I’ve, umm, been holding onto it until I got word…” He broke off, shuffled his feet a little, twisted the wand in his fingers, then tried again. “Okay, the thing is that I always meant to give this back to you but I never had the chance. You disappeared, and then, when I found you again, you were so sick that I… Um. Well, the Wizengamot has cleared you, you’re no longer a fugitive, and you’re nearly well again, so I guess now’s the time.”

Pulling his hand from his pocket, he stretched it out toward Draco, the wand across his palm. Draco stared at it with a shock so complete that his eyes looked dazed and blind. He did not move to take it.

“I’m not sure how well it will work for you now, but hopefully it knows I’m giving it back willingly. Or maybe you need to overpower me and claim it again.” He tried to smile, to turn it into a joke, but failed miserably. He sounded oddly pleading when he said, “You can punch me in the nose, if you think it’ll help.”

Draco turned his blind-looking eyes on Harry for a moment, then reached a hand for the wand. He didn’t quite touch it.

Harry lifted his hand higher and spread his fingers. “Go on. It’s yours.”

Very slowly, hesitantly, Draco touched the carved handle of the wand, curling his fingers around it. Harry felt the wood warm again and broke out in a smile.

“It remembers you.”

Draco lifted it from his palm. He held it awkwardly, as if he didn’t remember how, and ran his free hand up the length of the wooden shaft. Sparks shot from the tip, gold and silver, to fizzle in the air.

Harry laughed with delight. “I guess you don’t need to punch me!”

Draco looked at him again, his head cocked slightly, his expression unreadable. Then, under Harry’s stunned eyes, he turned on the spot and disappeared.

 

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLIFF HANGER! Don't worry, you'll get the next installment soon. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


	11. Flight of the Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, as promised, is the next chapter. I got it edited as quickly as possible, so as to not leave you hanging off that cliff...
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

 

Harry stood frozen in place, unable to breathe or even blink, for a full thirty seconds. His wide-open eyes were fixed on the spot where Draco had been standing before he apparated, and the expression on his face was blank with disbelief.

He had gone. He had _left._ Harry had done everything Hermione had told him to do—kept his hands off; provided unconditional support; given him back his health, his wand and his freedom of choice; shown in every possible way that he could how much he loved and respected the other man. And Draco had _left._

His lungs suddenly unlocked, and he drew in a frantic, sobbing breath that shook his entire body.

_Draco was gone!_

Snatching his wand from his pocket, he pointed it at that terrible empty spot on the rug where his dragon was supposed to be and shouted, “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ” A huge, shining, silver stag erupted from the tip of his wand and landed in the exact spot that Draco had just vacated.

In a saner frame of mind, Harry might have wondered how he had produced a Patronus —a piece of magic dependent on happiness—when the only feeling his could muster was blind panic. But Harry Potter, the most powerful wizard alive, the Savior of the Wizarding World, didn’t waste his time wondering how he’d done it. He always did what was necessary and the Patronus was, in this moment of crisis, entirely necessary.

“Find Hermione!” he snapped at the insubstantial creature. “Tell her _I need her!_ ”

The stag turned and bounded toward the closed window. One leap and it was gone. Harry was alone.

“Fuck!” Harry gasped, as panic took him in a cold, smothering fist. “ _Fuck!_ ”

He staggered over to the nearest chair and dropped into it. His chest heaved, fighting for breath, and his head swam. Clenching his eyes tight shut against the blotches of sickening color that obscured his vision, he ducked his head down to his knees. He was still huddled there, hands locked together across the back of his head with his wand still tangled in his fingers, when he heard the distinctive crack of someone apparating.

His head jerked up. There was no one in the room. The sound must have come from somewhere else in the house. He tried to stand, but his legs were watery and weak, and he doubted they would support his weight.

“ _Bloody fucking hell!_ ” he howled, feeling fresh panic rise at the thought that Draco might be right here in the house and Harry couldn’t reach him.

Footsteps sounded on the stone flags of the passage below and a familiar voice called, “Harry? _Harry?!_ ”

It was Hermione. Thank all the gods who ever lived to torment the human race, she had come!

“Up here!” he shouted.

The footsteps thunked on the stairs. Harry looked up to see Hermione just outside the room, Ron lurking anxiously at her shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” she demanded.

He started to smile in welcome, then he remembered that this entire hideous cock-up was her fault, and his face twisted into a grimace of enraged pain. “He’s gone!”

“What?”

His friends surged into the room, headed toward him, even as anger put strength back in his legs and he bounded to his feet. He fixed accusing eyes on Hermione’s shocked, baffled face and railed at her, “Draco! He’s gone! I did what you said… gave him his power, gave him his _wand_ , and now he’s gone!”

“Where?” she asked.

The uncharacteristic stupidity of that question pushed Harry over the edge into howling rage. “I don’t fucking _know_ , do I?! He _fucking apparated!_ ”

The hair lifted on his scalp. Sparks flew from the tip of his wand to set the carpet smoldering. Hermione stared at them as if each were a slap to her face and tears sprang up in her eyes.

“Easy on, mate, it’s not her fault,” Ron cautioned, but the shock in his own face took the sting out of it. He was defending his wife out of habit, not out of any conviction that Harry’s attack was unwarranted.

“She told me to give him the wand!”

“Well, you had to, didn’t you?” Hermione replied, stunned and tearful. “It’s his wand, after all, and you couldn’t keep him a prisoner.”

“But he just…” The rage was draining out of Harry, leaving him lost and miserable, instead of intent on mayhem. “…he vanished. He didn’t say anything… didn’t take anything…”

Harry dropped into his chair again and gazed up at the friend he had trusted with his entire future, such pain and pleading in his eyes that one look from them sent tears running down her cheeks. “He didn’t even put on his shoes.”

That struck Ron profoundly, as all Harry’s shouting about Malfoy’s disappearance had not. “He’s barefoot?”

Harry nodded dumbly, then added, “In his old hospital wing pajamas.”

“Anyone who sees him will think he’s an escaped mental patient.”

“But he has his wand,” Hermione said, with an effort at her usual brisk, businesslike tone. “He’s not helpless if he has his wand.”

Harry’s wounded gaze shifted from Ron to her. “He’s ill. _Damaged._ Hermione, you don’t know…”

“Yes, I do. That’s why I told you to give him the choice. Harry, my dear, we’re all damaged, all carrying terrible scars from the war. We just show them in different ways. I know you’re frightened, but if you want Draco to heal and find a way to live with his scars, you have to let him live the way he chooses. And that means…” She looked doubtfully at her old friend, gnawing her lip. “…maybe you just have to let him go.”

Harry gaped at her, horror and disbelief robbing him of breath, so it was Ron who bellowed an answer.

“No!” Harry and Hermione both turned to stare at him, eyes wide. He flushed and ducked his head. “You can’t let him go, Harry. Not back to that… that _place_.”

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione started, but Ron cut her off fiercely.

“You _saw_ it, ‘Mione. You know what it was like! Harry can’t let Ferret go back to that. It would kill him.” He risked a glance at Harry and amended, “Kill both of them, I reckon.”

“We don’t know that’s where he went.”

“Where else?”

Harry stared at Ron but his eyes were blank, turned inward, and his brain was churning.

Where else, indeed? Where else would _—could_ —Draco go? All the places where he used to belong—Malfoy Manor, Hogwarts, the homes of his family and friends—they were all out of reach for him, now. The people he loved were imprisoned, dead or fled. If any of his friends remained loyal and willing to help, he wouldn’t know, since he had long ago abandoned them rather than allow them to witness his downfall. He had no one and nowhere. That’s how he’d ended up in Nero’s brothel to begin with. Harry was his only way out, so if he left Harry, there was nowhere else for him to go.

Certainty and a wild, desperate hope flared up in Harry, bringing him to his feet in a rush. “Wait here!” he snapped, cutting off his friends’ ongoing argument over Malfoy’s fate.

“What? Where are you going?!” Hermione sputtered.

“Just wait here. I’ll be in touch.”

“But Harry, you shouldn’t…”

“Let him go,” Ron said, catching her arm to quiet her protests. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Harry gave him a wry half-smile and closed his eyes to conjure an image of where he needed to be. He distantly heard Hermione sighing, “Oh, Harry,” as he stepped into the crushing darkness.

A moment later, the feeling of being pushed through a too-small tube eased. Harry sucked in a grateful breath and opened his eyes, looking around to check that he had, in fact, arrived in Diagon Alley. He hated coming here, since one glimpse of his face seemed to send the entire wizarding world into a frenzy of adulation, and this street boasted the highest concentration of wizards in Britain at any given time. He estimated that he had about thirty seconds to get out of sight before someone recognized him and set up a screech.

Glancing to his right, he saw the dark, louring entrance to Knockturn Alley and he ducked gratefully into it. If Diagon Alley was always bustling with wizards who would go barmy over a glimpse of their golden hero, Knockturn Alley still had a reputation for dark doings and unsavory characters. Fewer people ventured down here. Those that did had little taste for advertising their presence and even less taste for fawning over the Chosen One.

He strode down the twisting street, not looking to either side to see the figures scuttling away. He knew exactly where he was going and would have apparated directly to it, but that he wanted to give himself time to think. To plan—if Harry Potter could ever be said to _plan_ anything _._

Draco had gone back to the _Horntail_ , of that he was certain. He was there now. He was with Nero now. In his bed, maybe on his cock, saying he was sorry in the only way he knew how.

This thought made Harry’s guts churn and cramp with rage, his vision tunnel nearly to black. He clenched his fist around his wand and sent a few golden sparks flying from its tip.

If he found Draco in that fat fuck’s bed, he would drag him out by his long, silver hair! Then he would kill Nero, flay the blubber from his bones, burn down his foul brothel around his ears and laugh while it crumbled into ash! He would apparate back to the cottage, lock Draco in the cellar, chain him to a wall, break his wand, put him under the Imperius Curse… Merlin help him, but he would do _anything_ to keep his dragon safe! Break every law in Wizarding Britain and forfeit every scrap of honor left to him! He would ruin himself for Draco, because he would die if he lost him again!

Even as he screamed this promise to himself in his head, knowing full well he could do none of these things, Harry came out into the square and halted. There, to his right, was the off-kilter, shabby, half-timbered bulk of the _Horntail_. At any other time, under any other circumstances, he would have let himself notice how sad and tawdry the club appeared in daylight. He would have felt a stab of pity for the people who depended on this grim place for their livelihood or their pleasure in life. But right here and now, he cared for only one thing: the slim, still, white figure planted like a statue in the deserted square, staring up at the building.

Draco had clearly come straight here, without stopping to collect himself or consider his actions. He looked exactly as he had when standing on Harry’s hearthrug—his hair sloppily pulled back in a ribbon and slipping loose to fall around his face; bare feet showing blue-white with cold below the frayed cuffs of old hospital-wing pajama bottoms; hands lost in the drooping sleeves of Harry’s most faded and battle-worn sweatshirt; wand hanging from his fingers as if he didn’t remember how to use it. Even his face was the same—wounded, baffled, numb with despair.

Despair. Harry recognized it immediately, though he was far enough away that the other man’s features were little more than a blur. He recognized it in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the way his feet seemed rooted permanently to the paving stones. He had come here because he had, quite literally, nowhere else to go, and that fact alone crushed the life out of him.

Harry started moving again, sprinting toward the pale beacon of his lover in the grey, lonely square. At the same moment, the door to the club opened, and the impressive bulk of Nero stepped through it. He was dressed in lilac today, accentuating his resemblance to one of Aunt Petunia’s meringues, and his heavy makeup looked almost comical in the wan daylight.

“Colin, my pet!” Nero’s voice was unnaturally sweet and caressing, but Harry could hear the reproach in it and a thread of steel that hinted at dire consequences. “Where have you been? Such a naughty boy to disappear without a word and make your Nero worry!”

“ _Draco!_ ” Harry shouted.

Two heads swiveled to find him, just as he screeched to a halt half a dozen yards from where Draco stood, panting and red-faced. Draco stared at him blankly, while Nero eyed him up and down with dawning recognition and understanding.

“Well, well. Harry Potter. Fancy seeing you here.” Nero’s gaze hardened and cut over to Draco again. “Is that where you’ve been, pet? Enjoying some Chosen Cock? I can’t say I blame you but…”

“Draco,” Harry said again, trying to ignore the foul, old whoremaster dripping poison in his ears. “Why did you come here?”

“Because this is where he belongs and he knows it,” Nero snapped, his affected sweetness turning to acid in his mouth. He minced up to Draco, his hand out to grab him. “Come along, ducks. Come give old Nero a kiss to say you’re sorry.”

“Don’t touch him!” Harry snarled, stopping Nero with his fingers only a few inches from Draco’s arm.

Nero hesitated, smirked at him, then reached for Draco again. Harry’s wand snapped up, pointed at other man’s massive chest.

“I said _don’t!_ ” Again, Nero froze, his eyes on Harry’s wand. “No one touches him! _No one!_ D’you hear me?!”

Even as the words came out of his mouth, Harry knew that this was right. This was how it had to be. If Draco chose to go back into that club, to have Nero’s hands on him again, then Harry couldn’t stop him. But it had to be Draco’s choice, freely made, with no one forcing it on him. All that Harry could do for him now was to make sure he had the freedom to choose.

Nero let his arm fall slowly to his side. His round, painted face was cold and suspicious, his eyes narrowed to glaring slits, his fat lips pulled into a smirk. “I fail to see how this is any of your affair, Mr. Potter, or what gives you the right to interfere with my employees.”

“Just keep your hands to yourself,” Harry growled, without taking his eyes off of Draco or lowering his wand.

Nero snorted at that and said, “He doesn’t need your protection. And I don’t need to use my hands to control what’s mine.” His voice cracked like a whip, making Draco flinch. “Inside, Colin. _Now_.”

“You don’t have to do it, Dragon,” Harry countered, throwing every ounce of persuasion he possessed into his voice. He wanted desperately to let his simmering magic loose, to drive that fat fuck back into his club and away from Draco, but he reined it in with an effort. “You don’t have to listen to him.”

“And who should he listen to? The famous Harry Potter? Don’t be stupid, pet. This _hero_ ,” he made the word both cloyingly sweet and utterly insulting at the same time, “won’t give you what you need. He’ll parade you around in front of his powerful friends, make you a laughingstock, then leave you without a Knut to your name. You’re a trophy to him. A plaything. A _whore._ That’s all you can ever be.”

“You know he’s lying,” Harry said earnestly. “He wants you back in his brothel, turning tricks, selling yourself for his own gain. Just like your father.”

At the mention of his father, Draco flinched again, hunching his shoulders and drawing his hands up into his sleeves. His eyes dropped to the stones at his feet.

“He may pet you and tell you you’re pretty,” Harry went on. “He may take you to bed, himself, and claim he’s giving you a treat. But he’s just doing what your father did, and you don’t have to take it. Not anymore.”

Draco took a breath, visibly steeling himself to speak. His eyes found Harry’s—grey locked to green—and for the moment, they were neither haunted nor blind with despair. They focused clearly on Harry, as soft and worn and colorless as the ancient sweatshirt he wore.

“This is the only home I have,” he murmured.

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat and said, “No, it isn’t. You have me.”

Draco’s eyes skated away again, drifting toward Nero and the ratty building that had been his sanctuary and prison for so long.

“If you don’t believe me, or you don’t want me, then go. Back to _that_. But Draco…” He waited, willing the other man to look at him, acknowledge him, until the faded, grey eyes found his again. Then he went on with utter conviction, “If you do go back, I won’t come for you again. I can’t. I love you with everything in me, but I won’t set foot in that place again. If you go in there, you go without me.”

The next thirty seconds were the longest of Harry’s life. Draco said nothing. He stared at Harry, at Nero, at the filthy cobblestones beneath his feet, his face empty and his eyes turned inward, while the two men battling for his soul waited in seething silence. His first step in Harry’s direction seemed to take all his strength, as if he had to physically tear his feet loose from the stone. And with that step, the stasis that held them all broke.

Nero snarled a curse and lunged for Draco. Harry crossed the distance between him and his lover in an instant, moving so fast that he might have apparated without realizing it. Draco almost fetched up against Harry’s chest, only just stopping before they collided, and stood there breathing hard, eyes lifted to meet Harry’s intent gaze. Harry kept his hands clenched at his sides to control the urge to touch Draco, while their eyes locked and the very air seemed to smolder between them.

Then Nero’s voice poured over them, thick with venom, “Aren’t you a precious one, _Harry_ _Potter!_ Savior? Chosen One? I _don’t_ think! Potter the poofter, more like! The shirt-lifter! The arse-licking degenerate! I hope you enjoyed buggering your pretty boy-cunt, because it’ll cost you a damned sight more than the gold you paid for him! When I tell the wizarding world what their blessed hero gets up to on the sly, you’ll find yourself in a Knockturn Alley gutter like our sweet Colin… selling your arse to feed your filthy habits…”

The litany of threats rolled off of Harry’s back, unnoticed. He didn’t even register the moment when Nero gave up, turned and retreated into his club, slamming the behind him. All that mattered was the man standing so close to him that Harry could feel the warmth of his body and hear the whisper of his breath. The man who had chosen him.

Thank all the gods, Draco had chosen him!

Draco looked up at him with those strangely softened, faded eyes and Harry read a weariness, a surrender, an utter exhaustion in him that was painfully familiar. It was exactly the face he’d worn himself, in the moment after he’d finally defeated Voldemort, when he’d turned to face a castle full of cheering, celebrating people and the corpses of his friends. With a weary sigh, Draco leaned into Harry and slipped his arms around his waist. Harry hesitated for the space of a breath, then surrendered to his own aching need. Wrapping his arms around Draco, he pulled the smaller man into his chest and held him so tightly that he threatened to crack his ribs. Draco did not protest. He did not try to pull away. He simply tucked his head beneath Harry’s chin and sighed again, this time in contentment.

“I couldn’t go in.” His low voice took Harry by surprise and sent his brows scaling up under his fringe. “I meant to. But when I got here, I just… couldn’t.”

“You had decided before I got here?” Harry asked. Draco nodded fractionally, his hair rubbing Harry’s chin, and Harry smiled in relief. “I’d like to kiss you. May I?”

Draco nodded again, very slightly, and lifted his head. He still wore that drained, exhausted look, but his eyes were warm and his lips parted softly.

Harry felt his heart lurch at the sight and he stooped to capture Draco’s mouth in a long, sweet, lingering kiss. It wasn’t the kiss he’d been dreaming of for so many weeks—there was little passion in it—but it filled Harry’s body with singing happiness and his brain with light. When he slowly, reluctantly drew his mouth away from the other man’s, he uttered a soul-deep sigh of contentment.

He buried his nose in the loose hair over Draco’s ear, inhaled the familiar scent of his own shampoo, then murmured, “Are you ready to go home, Dragon?”

“No.”

Cold gripped Harry’s guts, but he ruthlessly controlled the impulse to snap back. _Talk to him_ , he reminded himself. _Find out what he’s thinking. Do what Hermione would do and_ talk _to him._

“Why not?”

Draco put a hand on his chest, pushing himself slightly away without breaking Harry’s hold on him. “I don’t know what you expect from me.”

“Nothing,” Harry shot back instantly, bringing a sceptical look and a raised eyebrow from Draco. “Okay, there is one thing…”

“What?”

“I want you to fuck only me.”

The silvered brows dropped and drew into a frown over his nose. “So you expect me to fuck you.”

“Only when you’re ready. When _you_ want it. But _only me_ , Dragon. That’s my one condition.” Draco continued to frown up at him, so Harry went on, a frantic edge to his words, “I don’t expect you to just fall into my bed! I’m not that bloody stupid! But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop wanting you, wanting us to be like we were. You have no idea how much it hurts me to be this close to you and to feel you pushing me away… always pushing… _Fuck_ , Draco!”

“I’m not pushing, now.”

“No, and that gives me hope for the first time in, fuck, _years._ But you’re still afraid of me.”

He pressed his forehead to Draco’s and clenched his eyes shut, struggling for control over his emotions, his magic, his _words._ It was always so hard to express himself well, especially with Draco, who could rattle him so easily and turn him into a gibbering mess.

“You have no idea what it’s been like for me since the end of the war,” he murmured, eyes still closed, breath ghosting over Draco’s upturned face. “I’m not comparing it to what you went through—Merlin knows, I’m not!—but that doesn’t make it any easier. I’ve been struggling to survive without you, pretending my life, my job, my home matter when there was this big, cold, Draco-shaped hole inside me. My friends moved on, got married, had families, and they expected me to do the same, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. All I could do was pretend. Then walked into that club, and there you were, right in front of me. My dragon. I thought, for one glorious minute, that I could save you, but then you looked at me like you didn’t know me. You cried when I touched you. You tried to drug yourself to escape from me.”

“That’s not…” Draco started, but Harry was on a roll and didn’t hear him.

“Maybe I’m fooling myself. Maybe too much has happened, too many things have changed, and the man I’ve been looking for all this time doesn’t exist. But you’re _here_ , Dragon, _whoever_ you are, _whatever_ you are, and that’s all I need! Not the boy from Hogwarts, not the man I imagined you’d become, just _you_. Exactly the way you are, right now, complete with ratty old pajamas and hair down to your arse.”

“Potter…”

He straightened up, pulled back, and fixed Draco with a stern look. “Don’t call me that. My name is Harry.”

Draco’s face twisted, stiffened, then abruptly softened again. Something like a smile tilted his pale lips. “Harry.”

Harry tightened his hold on Draco’s slender body, gathering him still closer. “You keep telling me that it’s too late for us, but I don’t believe it. It’ll never be too late for us, not as long as we’re both alive, both standing here, together, not running away.”

“I ran,” Draco said very quietly.

“But you didn’t go into the club. You didn’t make that choice. Now you’re here with me, and that means it’s not too late.”

“And you want to fuck me.”

They were back to that. They always came back to that, Harry realized, maybe because Draco’s life for the last several years had been all about fucking—who wanted to fuck him, who paid for it first, who did it without paying, and whether or not Draco had any say in the matter. It was ugly and cruel and sordid, but it was a fact of Draco’s life. And that made it a fact of Harry’s, as well.

“Of course I want to fuck you,” he said with simply honesty. “I’ve waited _four_ _years_ to fuck you! Four years of celibacy! And I’ll keep waiting, if that’s what it takes, because I won’t force you into anything, ever. But I won’t share you, either.”

“I can’t be your trophy, Harry,” Draco whispered.

“You’ve never been that.”

“Or your dirty, little secret.”

With a sweep of his hand, Harry pulled the ribbon from Draco’s hair and let the long, gleaming strands spill over his shoulders. Then he buried both hands in the glorious mass to guide their mouths together in another long, loving kiss. When his mouth was free at last, he rested his forehead against Draco’s again and whispered, “What can I do to show you how precious you are to me?”

“I don’t know.” Harry heard tears in the other man’s voice and felt an answering ache in his own chest. “I don’t even understand how you can stand here, kissing me in a public street, where anyone could see…”

Harry gave a sobbing laugh. “Seriously?”

Without hesitation, he reached out with his magic and pulled them both into the waiting darkness. A lurch, a crushing feeling, and they were through the tube, standing in the middle of yet another cobbled street, but this one was bright with sunlight and full of bustling people. Diagon Alley at the height of the Christmas rush, right in front of the broom shop, with Flourish and Blotts across the way, Eyelops Owl Emporium next door, and the white bulk of Gringotts towering over them.

Draco looked up and around, his mouth open to demand an explanation, but Harry just tightened his hold on his love and pulled him into yet another searing kiss. This time, he did not hold back. He locked an arm around Draco’s waist, lifting him nearly off his feet, while his other hand guided his head, tilted it, held it so he could claim his mouth. His tongue pushed between Draco’s lips and deep into his mouth to plunder it. Draco moaned softly and the sound nearly pitched Harry into an orgasm, as public and inappropriate as the moment was. Just the fact that he held a heated and willing Draco in his arms after so long—his body pliant, his knee lifting to press into Harry’s thigh, his cock already hardening beneath the flimsy fabric of his old flannel pajamas—was almost enough to push him over the edge.

He ruthlessly ordered himself not to let go, not to humiliate Draco by making a spectacle of themselves, and broke the kiss just in time. Gazing down into the other man’s dazed, questioning eyes, he let some of his simmering power leak out and said, his voice thrumming with magic, “I will kiss you in front of the whole, fucking wizarding world, if that’s what it takes to prove myself to you.”

Draco swallowed audibly, his eyes sliding sideways to where a knot of witches and wizards stood with their heads together. “They’re staring.”

“They’re supposed to stare.”

Harry looked up to find them standing in a wide space, surrounded by gawkers and hurrying shoppers. Most of the passersby did not stop, but they all turned to look at the two men, craning their necks to keep them in view for as long as possible, and many did simply stop to gape. Every one of them recognized Harry Potter. Some of them couldn’t place the slender, pale figure in the ratty pajamas and bare feet, but the ones who did swiftly set them straight. The news was spreading like fiendfyre that the Hero of the Wizarding World was snogging a penniless Death Eater’s brat and notorious rent-boy in the middle of Diagon Alley.

“What are you doing, Harry?” Draco whispered, his face white as chalk and his eyes huge.

“Making a public declaration. I give it about two minutes before the reporters arrive.”

Draco shivered. “I don’t want to talk to reporters.”

“Oh, we won’t be here. But while we still have time…” He swiftly let go of Draco, dropped to one knee in front of him, and caught his hands. “Draco Malfoy, will you marry me?”

“What? No!” Snatching his hands away, Draco blushed a fiery red and looked around for an avenue of escape. “Get up, you sodding idiot!”

Harry, borne on a current of certainty, was not fazed by this response. He bounded to his feet and recaptured Draco’s hands. “Okay, I’m up, but the offer still stands. Marry me and thumb your perfect aristocratic pureblood nose at the whole lot of them!”

“How did we go from ‘I won’t go home with you’ to ‘Marry me’ in thirty fucking seconds?” Draco hissed.

“Easy. I figured out what your problem is.”

“My _problem_ is that I’m not ready to climb into your bed! And I’m sure as hell not ready to _marry you!_ ”

“Yes, you are, you just don’t want to admit it—not the bed part, maybe, but definitely the marriage part.” He glanced around at the shocked, outraged, avid faces turned toward them. “One minute before we have to clear out of here. That gives me one minute to convince you.”

“Harry,” Draco began in exasperation.

“No. The clock is ticking, so shut it and listen. You don’t want to be used anymore. You don’t want to be a trophy or a dirty secret, to be owned, bullied, threatened, shagged by strangers or manipulated by people you trusted to care for you. Am I right?”

Draco nodded silently, his eyes on the ground and his cheeks hot.

“So stop letting all those fucking wankers treat you like a whore. Take your power back and mine with it. Stand beside me in front of God, the Ministry and everyone, my husband and my equal partner, with a name that will protect you and a place in our world that no one can assail.”

“ _I_ can assail it,” he whispered. “I’ll still be a Malfoy, no matter what name you give me. And a whore.”

“Not if you don’t want to be. And I know you don’t.”

Draco shook his head fractionally.

“Then let me do this for you, Dragon. Let me give you your power back, your magic, your wings. Let me prove to you that I’m committed, totally and absolutely committed, and I’ll be there for you till the day I die. What that means is up to you. The only thing I ask is that, when you’re ready for a real marriage, you come to me instead of going to someone else. Fuck only me, yeah?”

Draco reached for him, grabbed a fistful of his robe, and held on so tightly that his knuckles went bloodless. “You don’t have to marry me to keep me for yourself.”

Harry laughed and chided, “I may be just a Gryffindor, but I’m not completely stupid. I know that if you wanted someone else, my ring on your finger wouldn’t stop you.”

“I don’t want anyone else.”

“I know.” He stepped close again and slipped his free hand up to cradle the smaller man’s head. Unconsciously, his fingers tightened around a handful of platinum hair. “Dragon, please. Let me show you how much I love you. Let me give you your wings back.”

Before Draco could answer, Harry pressed a kiss to his upturned lips, throwing all his certainty and devotion into that chaste caress. Draco sobbed low in his throat and clutched at Harry’s robe a little tighter. Harry covered his hands and pulled them hard to his chest.

A sudden cry from down the street, followed by the unmistakable pop of a flashbulb brought Harry’s head up with a curse.

“Time to go.”

Draco’s hand twitched in his but did not pull away. A tug of his fist in Harry’s robe brought the taller man’s mouth down again, and in the last second before their lips touched, he whispered,“Yes.”

Harry smiled as he pulled them into the darkness once more.

 

* * *

 

There was a loud crack, and two figures appeared in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic Headquarters. This was unusual—Ministry rules and common courtesy dictated that people coming into the building use the floo network or the Visitor’s entrance—but the wards did not prevent apparition, and it wasn’t entirely unheard of that a Ministry worker in a hurry would forget courtesy in the interests of speed. So the noise made several heads turn and several faces draw down in a disapproving frown, but the only person to move in their direction was the guard who manned the gates. Then someone recognized the taller of the two figures, the one dressed in slightly disheveled but respectable Muggle clothes, and a buzz of startled conjecture went through the room.

Harry Potter… Harry Potter had just broken Ministry rules and apparated into the building with… Merlin’s Balls! Was that Draco Malfoy with him? _Draco Malfoy?_ Dressed in _pajamas?_ Why would Potter bring Malfoy here? Was he arresting him? Had Malfoy at long last fulfilled the hopes and predictions of Wizarding Britain, showed his true colors, and turned even the saintly Harry Potter against him?

“What the fuck, Harry?” Draco whispered, as he stepped away from the other man and cast a nervous glance at the massed faces confronting them.

The guard checked his stride when he realized who had committed this breach of protocol. He stopped, gulped, and met Harry’s level stare.

“Hullo, Eric.”

“Mr. Potter.”

“We’re going up to see the Minister.” Harry slipped an arm around Draco’s waist, drawing their bodies together. “Mr. Malfoy is my guest, so you don’t need to register his wand.”

“I… uh… Yeah. Right you are.” The guard, who had nodded a greeting to Harry as he passed through the gates on his way to his office every day for the last three years, couldn’t bring himself to argue with the Chosen One, so he simply stepped aside and let the two men walk past him.

Harry kept his arm firmly around Draco, in spite of the hisses and mutters he heard all around them, ignoring even Draco’s low-voiced protests, until they stepped into a lift. Then he put the other arm around him as well and pulled him against his chest.

“If we’re going to get married, we need a proper marriage contract.”

“We don’t need the Minister for that.”

“I believe in starting at the top.”

The smug look on his face dragged a sobbing, ragged laugh from Draco. Ducking his head, he locked both arms around Harry’s waist and pressed his forehead into the hollow of his shoulder, shaking with something caught between tears and hilarity.

They were halfway up to the top level and Kingsley’s office, when Harry suddenly remembered the two loyal friends waiting so anxiously for word from him. Drawing his wand without disturbing Draco’s hold on him, he cast a Patronus with ridiculous ease. He was so full of triumphant happiness that it was more of a strain to contain it than to give vent to it.

“Find Ron and Hermione. Tell them, ‘I found him. He’s safe. Wait for us at the cottage.’”

Draco lifted his head to watch the stag bound off through the wall of the lift. Then he turned to regard Harry dubiously. “Weasley and Granger?”

“I called them when you disappeared. They’re waiting at my place, and they’ll be frightened.” Draco cocked his head, his mouth open with no words coming out. “Should we invite them to our wedding?”

“Potter…”

“They’re my best friends, so of course I’d like them to be there, but I don’t want you to feel outnumbered. If you have anyone you want to invite, to balance the numbers, we could…”

“Potter.”

“What? Why are you calling me ‘Potter’ again? You can’t call me that when we’re married and my last name is Malfoy.”

“I thought you were giving me your name,” Draco mumbled, face averted.

The lift clanked to a halt and a mellifluous, feminine voice announced that they’d reached Level One. Harry dragged Draco unceremoniously out of the lift and over to a stretch of empty wall. He cupped Draco’s cheek, forcing him to look up.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, his voice equal parts gentle and compelling.

“We’re not really going to have a wedding, are we?”

“Of course we are. I thought we’d do it here, in front of Kingsley, but if you want our friends there we should probably find a bigger venue. And actually invite them.”

“You want to get married _now?_ Like this?”

“Like what? In love?”

Draco flicked a finger in the sleeve of Harry’s t-shirt. “With you looking like a derelict Muggle and me…” He looked down at his own escaped-mental-patient ensemble helplessly. “Well, I suppose I don’t have anything else to wear, but I would like something on my feet.”

Harry laughed and swept the other man with his bright gaze. “You look like a virgin bride, all in white.”

“I look like I wandered off the Closed Ward without my Niffler slippers.”

“Niffler slippers?” Harry chuckled again. “Are those the wizard equivalent of bunny slippers?”

“I wouldn’t know, but I had a beautiful pair of Niffler slippers when I was a child. They were sleek and furry, with little Niffler faces on the toes and ears that stuck up…”

“Yup, bunny slippers. Was there a puffball tail in back?”

“Niffler’s tails are not puffballs. They are long and sinuous, like a ferret’s. On my slippers, the tail lay along the side and curled round the front, so it looked like the Niffler was sleeping with his tail tucked under his paw.”

“That sounds adorable! I want a pair.”

Draco sighed, a smile glimmering in his eyes for the first time in longer than Harry could remember. “We’re getting off the subject.”

“Right, the wedding. So, would you like to do it right now, with Kingsley officiating, or would you rather collect our friends and make a bit of a fuss about it?”

“I don’t have any friends,” Draco murmured.

“You have Ron and Hermione. And Kingsley, of course.”

Draco thought about this, his face calm and a trifle sad, then he said, “I don’t want a fuss and I don’t have any better place to hold it than Shacklebolt’s office. Honestly, I haven’t thought about weddings or families or anything to do with a normal life in so long that I… I’m not sure how it ought to work. But I do know that you should invite Weasley and Granger.”

Harry petted his hair, coaxing him a little closer, into the curve of his arm. “Are you sure?”

“You won’t forgive yourself if you do this without them. And I don’t expect that they’ll forgive you, either.”

Harry gave himself a handful of seconds to consider this, realizing that Draco was absolutely right and his friends would roast him over a slow fire, if he got married without them there to see it. Then he pulled his wand and cast yet another Patronus.

“Find Ron and Hermione. Tell them to come to Kingsley’s office at once.”

 

* * *

An hour later, Harry and Draco walked out of the Minister for Magic’s office with Ron and Hermione on their heels. Of the four, only Harry did not look stunned. He was smiling brightly enough to light up the corners of the ten-storey building and possibly start the carpet smoldering. He held Draco’s hand in his, and he lifted it every few seconds to get a glimpse of the platinum band on his fourth finger. A matching ring adorned his own hand, and when he wasn’t gazing with idiotic delight at Draco’s, he fingered his own or rubbed the smooth metal against his lips.

Hermione watched him do this for the third or fourth time since they’d left the office and grinned over at Ron, her eyes dancing. “He’s gone right round the bend.”

“Completely mental,” Ron agreed. A smile tugged at his lips in spite of himself. “Let’s hope it lasts.”

Draco glanced back over his shoulder at that, showing Ron his dazed, overwhelmed expression and wary eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

Ron flushed. “That’s not what I meant, Ferret. Honestly. I just don’t want to see Harry go through what he did before.”

“When I left him?”

“When the bloody war tore us all apart and you two took the worst of it.”

Draco tried to smile, one corner of his mouth lifting, but it didn’t touch his eyes. In the next second, it was gone. They reached the lift, and while they waited for it to arrive, they found themselves standing in an awkward group, not knowing exactly what to say to each other. To everyone’s surprise, it was Draco who broke the silence.

“I’m sorry if I put you in bad position. I told Harry to invite you because I thought you should be here for him, but maybe I was wrong.”

Hermione’s eyes flew open wide. “You weren’t.”

“I never really understood how it works with you three. What you will or won’t do for each other. I just know that he wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t at least invite you to his wedding.” As the last word came out of his mouth, he flushed a painful crimson.

“Draco, you didn’t overstep,” Hermione assured him. She lifted a hand to rest on his arm and offered him a tremulous smile. “We wanted to be here. Honestly.”

As he had with Ron, he made a valiant attempt to smile back at her that failed rather spectacularly. “Well, it’s a good thing you did come.” He held up his hand, still clasped in Harry’s, to show the ring she had conjured for him. “It wouldn’t have been much of a wedding without these.”

Her cheeks turned pink with pleasure. “I’m glad you like them.”

“They’re beautiful, Hermione,” Harry said fervently. He had to admit that the perfect, smooth, featureless platinum of the rings Hermione had produced suited them better than anything he would have chosen. Left to his own devices, he would have bought Draco the most expensive, ostentatious ring he could find, oblivious to the fact that the man standing beside him was not the arrogant, spoiled showoff he’d known at school. The old Draco would have wanted a rock the size of Gibraltar on his finger. This one wasn’t entirely sure he wanted even a sedate circle of precious metal.

The lift arrived, with a handful of Ministry officials in it. The four friends edged aside to let them out, ignoring the curious glances cast their way, though Harry steadfastly refused to let go of Draco’s hand. As the last witch in the group frowned at him in passing, he lifted his husband’s hand and pressed a kiss to it, his eyes never leaving the witch’s face. Then the four of them stepped into the empty lift and Ron pushed the button for the Atrium.

“So, what now?” Ron asked cheerfully. “A wedding feast? A drink at the Leaky Cauldron? Or do you fancy a quick trip to the Burrow to break the news to Mum?”

Harry winced. “Merlin, no!”

“You’ll have to tell her sometime, mate.”

“Sometime that isn’t tonight.” He glanced down at Draco and smothered a sigh. His dragon looked so pale and ethereal, as if he weren’t entirely there in his oversized, grey-white clothing, bare feet and waist-length curtain of platinum hair. His eyes looked too large for his face and his skin was nearly transparent. In fact, he looked more like a ghost or a Patronus than a living, breathing man.

Letting go of his hand, Harry reached up to brush the hair back off his shoulder and reveal more of his face.

“Draco?” Wide, worried, liquid-silver eyes lifted to meet his. “Are you all right?”

He swallowed and looked away without answering.

“Where do you want to go? Just tell me, and we’ll apparate out of here before anyone else sees us.” His arm slipped around Draco’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Tell me where.”

“Back to the cottage.” It came out as a soundless whisper.

“All of us? Or just you and me?”

“I think we’d better go on home,” Hermione said, her voice soft and warm with kindness, “and leave you two alone.”

“It’s okay,” Draco murmured. “You can come if you want…”

Harry cut him off firmly. “No, Draco, what do _you_ want?”

He thought about that for a moment, his head down and his face hidden behind a curtain of hair. Then he said, “I want to go home. Alone.” His head came up sharply and he added, “You and me alone, that is.”

Harry’s arm tightened around him, drawing his face into the curve of his neck so he didn’t have to look at the others. Over Draco’s bent head, he said to Ron and Hermione, “Thank you both for coming. It means a lot to me—to both of us—but now I’m taking my dragon home.”

“Right you are, mate,” Ron said. “Ferret, thanks for giving Golden Boy, here, a kick in the pants and making him invite us to his ruddy wedding. We’ll see you both later, when you’re done celebrating and ready for visitors.”

“Cheers,” Harry said, with a smile. Then he wrapped both arms tightly around Draco and disappeared with a crack.

 

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just say... I know I moved things along with Harry and Draco more quickly than is strictly realistic, but I think it works. I tried to make it clear that Draco really does love Harry, he always has, and if he could see a way clear to being with him he would take it. Besides, if I were being strictly realistic, it would take _years_ for them to work through their issues and get back together, and I'm not going to put them, myself or my readers through that! So I hurried things just a trifle. :)


	12. Marital Bliss, or A Bath, a Tantrum and a Cup of Tea

A fire of heroic proportions burned on the massive hearth, filling the room with warmth and flickering light, but Draco still managed to feel the cold. He had pulled a pair of Potter’s woolen socks over his bare feet, but otherwise he was still dressed in his wedding finery. He sat curled defensively into one corner of the settee, his long hair spilling forward over his shoulders, curtaining his face and gleaming redly in the firelight. From behind it, his eyes studied the flames as if they could somehow unravel the baffling mysteries of his life.  
****

He was married. To Harry Bloody Potter. He was no longer wanted, a free man, and married. To Harry Potter. How in buggering fuck had he ended up here? And what was he supposed to do now?

Footsteps sounded on the floor and a body settled next to his on the settee. He cut a glance over to see Potter sitting there with two cups of tea floating in front of him. At Draco’s look, he plucked one cup from the air and held it out to him.

“Here. This will warm you up.”

Draco took the saucer and absently spun the cup on it to catch the handle with his left hand. Then he took a sip. It was perfect, as always, and it did form a little ball of warmth in his stomach.

Harry took a rude slurp of his own tea and said, “I hope you’re hungry. Kreacher’s filled the whole kitchen with food again.”

“Have you told him, yet?” Draco asked. “About us?”

“Who, Kreacher?” At Draco’s nod, Harry chuckled. “No, but he’ll be thrilled. A little too thrilled, honestly, which is one reason I haven’t said anything. I’m afraid he’ll refuse to go back to Hogwarts, now that he has a real Black in the house to serve.”

Draco looked up at that, a small furrow between his brows. “Hogwarts?”

“That’s where he works most of the time. I just brought him here to help me take care of you when you were so sick. But now you’re well and I don’t really need him here.”

“But… he’s your house-elf,” Draco ventured, his frown deepening.

“He’s not, actually. I freed him right after the war. He just refuses to accept it and goes on calling me Master, even though he resents practically everything about me. He threw an eppy when I moved out of Grimmauld Place. I’ve never seen anything like it. I couldn’t bring him here—he’d be miserable and there’s not enough work for him, anyway—so I sent him to Hogwarts.”

“And he agreed to go?”

“Only after I gave him free run of Grimmauld Place. He says he’s taking care of the house, in case the Black Heir wants it,” Harry nodded significantly at Draco and grinned, “but I think he really just sits talking to that foul portrait of Sirius’ mum and fondling all the family relics.”

“You freed your house-elf against his will and then sent him off to work for someone else? No wonder he resents you.”

“Oh, that started long before I tried to free him. He’s despised me since the first time we met. And he’s resented my claim on him ever since I inherited him from Sirius. You’d think he’d be happy that I freed him, much as he hates working for me, but no, that would be too logical for Kreacher!”

“Harry, you can’t treat a house-elf like that.”

“Like what? Like a thinking being with the right to choose what he does and who he serves?”

“Like you don’t respect his efforts or loyalties.”

“Kreacher isn’t loyal to me. He’s loyal to the Black family and a hideous, old woman who’s been dead for years!”

“Obviously he is loyal to you, or he wouldn’t still call you master and come when you crook your finger, after you chucked him over.”

“He only agreed to come back to help you. And if you want him to stay, I’m sure he will. I don’t mind having him around.”

“If I… Harry, you blithering idiot!”

“You’re angry.” Harry cocked his head, eyeing Draco curiously. “Why are you angry?”

“I’m not! I’m… confused.” He turned to face Harry directly, tucking his heels up close to his bum and his knees under his chin. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, quietly, “You really don’t care about Kreacher or any of the Black legacy? It’s all just rubbish to you?”

Harry shrugged. “Not exactly. There are a few things Sirius left me, like the old furniture, that I like, but most of it… I value it for his sake, and now for yours, but it’s not me. Grimmauld Place, Dark artifacts, Family crests, ancient house-elves, pureblood traditions and all that. It’s not who I am, you know?”

“But you’re a Potter,” Draco said with exaggerated patience.

“Yeah?”

“The Potters are practically wizarding nobility.”

Harry gave a shout of laughter, then sobered when he realized that Draco was serious. “I’m a half-blood, Draco. My mum was Muggle-born.”

Draco shrugged that away. “You’re a Potter. A _Peverell_. Do you honestly have no idea what that means?”

“Well, I know the Peverell brothers were supposed to be the inventors of the Deathly Hallows…”

“And that doesn’t tell you something?”

“It’s just an old story,” Harry retorted, his face flushing in a way that told Draco there was more to that ‘old story’ than the other man was willing to say.

“A very old story, about a very old and powerful family. Whether or not the legends are true, the fact that they’re told about the Peverell family is proof enough of what an ancient name it is.”

“Okay, so half of my family is ancient wizarding nobility, so what? I’m still just a regular bloke, a half-blood raised by Muggles, with no clue how pureblood society works and, quite frankly, no interest in learning.”

“Aren’t you even a _little_ curious about your father’s family?” Draco demanded, an edge of frustration and disbelief in his voice. “Not the pureblood privilege shite, but who they were? How they lived? What they wanted for themselves and their children and their children’s children all the way down to the Boy Who Bloody Lived? You say all that family tradition isn’t you, but you don’t really know that, do you? You don’t know anything about the Potter family traditions and legacies because you’ve never bothered to find out. Maybe they’re rich and strong and worthwhile! Maybe, if you gave your family half a chance, they might surprise you!”

As his voice echoed into silence, Harry just gazed at him, unblinking, and Draco felt a wave of embarrassment hit him. He flushed hotly and pulled back, ducking his face half behind his knees.

“Sorry. It’s none of my business. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

“Don’t be daft.” A hand touched his knee, very lightly, then withdrew. “You have every right to speak your mind. And honestly, I was just thinking…”

Draco glanced up to find Harry’s eyes fixed on him, full of warmth and delight.

“You sounded like yourself again. Opinionated and pushy as hell.” A bright, glorious smile spread over his face, turning Draco’s insides to water with its heat. “Marriage agrees with you, Draco Malfoy.”

“Potter,” Draco amended, the word coming out as no more than a breath through lips gone stiff with nerves.

Harry’s smile widened and his eyes lit. “Draco Malfoy Potter.”

“Just Potter.” Draco cleared his throat and tried to find his voice when he added, “You said you’d give me a— a new name.”

“Oh, now I get it! All this interest in the Potter heritage! You’ll only give up the Malfoy name for one that’s at least as ancient and powerful!”

“What?” Draco jerked back in surprise, feeling as if Harry had just slapped him, and his cheeks flamed a furious crimson. “No. I didn’t mean…”

The laughter abruptly drained from Harry’s face, replaced by chagrin, and he hastily set his tea cup aside to reach for Draco. “I’m sorry. Draco, I’m sorry.” He froze with his hands almost brushing Draco’s hair, then slowly pulled them back. “I was taking the mickey, that’s all, but I guess it’s too soon.”

Draco ducked his head in embarrassment again and felt hot tears sting his eyes. What a fucking idiot he was! Of course Potter was teasing! Only a thundering, great prat of a Malfoy would misinterpret his words as an attack! Only someone as thick and damaged and self-absorbed and…

“Draco.”

He forced himself to look up at that caressing word, to meet the green eyes fixed so ardently on him, and found Harry bent close enough that his chest nearly touched Draco’s shins.

“May I kiss you?”

Was he really asking that? Why didn’t he just _do_ it, the stupid sodding git? Wasn’t Draco his husband, now? Didn’t the ring he wore mean that he belonged to Harry Bloody Potter now and forever?

Swallowing these words that roiled uselessly in his head, Draco simply nodded.

Harry smiled and slipped his hands into Draco’s hair to cradle his head, guiding their mouths together. His lips brushed Draco’s softly, chastely, then moved in to press more fully against them. They parted, urging Draco’s apart as well, but only to allow his tongue to slip along the inner rim of Draco’s lip once before it withdrew. Then the mouth on his was gone, the warmth and gentleness gone, the possessive clasp of Harry’s fingers against his head gone, and Draco had to clench his eyes shut for a minute to fight back his threatened tears.

“I’ll give you whatever name you want, Draco,” Harry breathed from no more than a finger’s breadth away, “for whatever reason. All _I_ want is to share it with you.”

As Draco’s eyes fluttered open, Harry sat back and reached for his tea cup. His gaze still fixed on Draco, he smiled, lifted the cup in a salute, and said, “To us. Draco and Harry Potter.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Draco lifted his own cup to mirror Harry’s toast, then took a tiny sip of the cooling tea.

As he set the cup back on its saucer, Draco took his courage in his hands and tried for a tiny bit of his own humor. “Is this the first Potter Family tradition? A wedding toast with cold tea?”

Harry laughed and the sound seemed to brighten the air around them. “I thought tea would settle your nerves a bit, but I have champagne, if you’d prefer.”

A sudden, sickening image flashed into Draco’s head of the last time he’d drunk champagne—Malfoy Manor, Christmas Eve, the party just before he’d been bound to the Dark Lord with an Unbreakable Vow—and his stomach contracted painfully.

“No.”

He didn’t honestly think he’d ever be able to drink the stuff again.

Harry caught his sudden shift in mood and frowned at him. “What’s the matter?”

Draco shook his head, his eyes sliding away. “Nothing. A bad memory.”

Harry’s frown deepened. “I’d really like to hold you, right now. Just put my arms around you and keep you safe from all that.” When Draco said nothing to this, he prompted, “May I?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

“Yes, I do.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to frown. He stared at Harry in disbelief, his brows drawn down sharply, a deep furrow between them. “Potter…”

“Harry,” the other man corrected gently.

“We’re married,” Draco went on, ignoring the interruption. He lifted his left hand to show his ring. “That gives you the right to do anything you like to me.”

Harry gave a snort of humorless laughter. “Bollocks. We have an agreement. And even if we didn’t, you’re my husband, my equal partner, not my property.”

“Equal partners,” Draco murmured, as he dropped his hand and twisted the ring on it between his fingers.

“I told you I wouldn’t force you into my bed, and I meant it. I won’t force you into _anything_ , or let anyone else do it.”

Draco looked up again, his gaze sharp. “How can we be equal partners, if I set all the rules?”

Harry blinked at him, thrown by his unexpected challenge. “Umm…”

“Shouldn’t we agree together on the rules? Negotiate? Each give something to make the other happy?”

“Are you saying that you want to negotiate sex?”

“I’m trying to understand. You say you’ll never force me into any kind of physical contact, but you want me. I know you do.”

“That’s no secret.”

“So you want me but you can’t even touch me without asking. How is that fair to you? How are we equals, if I get whatever I want and you get nothing?”

“Okay.” Harry scratched his nose, then ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand up erratically. “First off, I’m getting a hell of a lot more than nothing. I’m getting what I want, as much as you are.”

“That’s not true. You’re…”

“Shut it and let me finish. I get you in my life, in my home, safe and close, where I can protect you and love you and… fuck, Draco, this is _everything_ to me! Don’t you get it? I spent _years_ alone in this house, dying by inches! Now you’re here, and I feel like I’m actually living again! So I can’t shag you, so what? I’m a big boy. I’ll survive.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.”

Harry shrugged. “If that’s the price I pay for having you back, then I’ll gladly pay it. And someday, maybe, when you feel whole and strong again, you’ll decide that you want me, too. Until then…” He shrugged again and said, firmly, “Everyone’s allowed boundaries. Lovers. Husbands. Whores. Everyone’s allowed to say ‘no’.”

“I’m not,” Draco murmured, very softly. “I never have been.”

“You _are_.” Harry pinned him with a fierce gaze. “You _did_ , and maybe it took me a while, but eventually I fucking listened.”

Draco stared at him, the treacherous tears pricking his eyes again. After a moment, he lifted a hand to rest against Harry’s cheek.

“You’re the only man who ever has listened.”

Harry turned his head to press his lips to Draco’s palm. His eyes fluttered closed. Draco thought he saw moisture clinging to Harry’s lashes, catching the light, but that had to be his imagination.

“This marriage is a safe place for both of us, Dragon,” Harry said against his palm. “We’ll each set our own boundaries, and the other will respect them. Equal partners, yeah?”

Draco kept his hand against Harry’s face as he gathered his courage to speak. The warmth of the other man’s skin seemed to travel up his arm, into his chest, to settle round his heart and lend him strength. When he finally found his voice, it was soft but calm. Almost confident. The voice of Draco Malfoy the man, not the ghost.

“I like it when you touch me. You don’t have to ask first. And you can kiss me whenever you want, unless… unless I tell you not to.”

“Can I hold you now?” Harry whispered into his palm.

“Yes,” Draco breathed. “Please.”

Harry moved at once, fluid and sure, uncoiling himself from the settee and dropping to his knees beside Draco, then gathering him close in his arms. Draco settled against his chest and turned his face into the curve of his neck, letting his breath out on a soundless sigh of relief. One hand stroked the hair back from his cheek, while the other clasp his back and pressed their bodies closer together. Draco slipped his own arms around Harry’s waist.

They clung together, chest to chest, arms wrapped tight, cheeks touching where Harry leaned his head down to meet Draco’s. The fire snapped and crackled. The room glowed with warmth and Harry’s magic. The tea sat abandoned on the table, going rapidly cold.

Finally, Harry stirred and murmured, “Are you hungry?”

Draco shook his head. He didn’t want to move, to draw out of Harry’s arms, but he knew they couldn’t stay here all night. Then he thought of the one place he’d rather be than right here. The one place that felt even safer, warmer, more sheltered and loving.

“Take a bath with me?”

A chuckle shook Harry’s body. His hands stroked Draco’s hair. “Okay.”

 

The antique claw-footed tub seemed to get bigger every time they used it. It was filled nearly to the rim with steaming water and rich, sandalwood-scented bubbles that piled up to Draco’s chin. He lay back against Harry’s chest, bracketed by his bent knees, feeling as if he were back in the Prefects bathroom at Hogwarts with its bath the size of a swimming pool to drift in. The heat and soft perfume were slowly cooking the tension out of him, leaving him limp and nerveless. Content in a way he hadn’t dared hope he’d ever be again.

Harry stroked his hands down Draco’s arms and bent to bring his mouth to his ear. “Okay?”

“Mmm.”

With this sleepy sound, Draco rolled onto his side and nuzzled his face into Harry’s neck. The wide tub gave him plenty of room to curl up, feet pulled close to his bum, knees tucked under Harry’s thigh, shoulder beneath Harry’s arm and hand on his ribs. He sighed and rubbed his cheek against the wet cotton of Harry’s t-shirt. Then, on an impulse, he slid his hand up beneath the shirt to rest it against bare skin.

Harry brushed a kiss to his forehead and clasped his hand through the fabric of his shirt. When Draco lifted his head to peer at him from beneath his lashes, Harry captured his lips in a gentle, seductive kiss. Draco melted into it for a long moment, letting the warmth of Harry’s touch course through him with the heat of the water. Then he felt his cock stir.

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the pressure building in his loins, and accidentally nudged his hip against Harry’s crotch. The other man was painfully hard.

Draco abruptly broke the kiss and hid his face in Harry’s neck again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into the damp, Harry-scented flesh. “I can’t go there.”

“It’s okay.”

“I know it’s not fair…”

Harry’s hand stroked his hair, cutting him off. “Shh.”

“If you can’t take it… if you…” He broke off and swallowed nervously.

There was a beat of silence, then Harry asked, “Are you giving me permission to fuck around?”

Draco’s eyes flew open and he jerked upright to find Harry watching him with laughing eyes. An answering smile tilted his own lips. “No. But you can wank yourself raw. And you don’t have to hide it from me.”

“Like I could, anyway,” Harry retorted.

Draco wanted to fling himself into Harry’s arms. He wanted to rut his burning prick into Harry’s belly, to peel down Harry’s pants and feel his erection slide against his own. He wanted to snog Harry senseless, to make his lips go hot and soft and swollen, to thrust his tongue deep into his mouth and hear him moan in response.

Instead, he buried his fingers in the thick hair at the nape of Harry’s neck and whispered, “I know it’s not fair, and I— I love you for accepting it.”

“Dragon.” The word was a hot breath on his mouth, a caress, a plea, and Draco answered it by leaning in to catch the offered lips.

They kissed slowly, sweetly, lips and tongues toying with each other but never pressing too hard or plunging too deep. By silent agreement, they poured all their love into the kiss but withheld the passion. But even so, by the time he broke away again, Draco was shaking and tears wet his cheeks. He uttered a low sob and bent to press his forehead into Harry’s shoulder. Harry stroked his hair and back, hummed soothingly, and brought his bent knees in close to press against his sides.

“Shh,” Harry breathed in his ear. “It’s all right.”

“What if I never can?” Draco almost whimpered, the fear rising in him, forcing the words out past the tightness in his throat. “What if they broke something in me, and I can’t do it anymore? Not even for you?”

“Then you don’t have to. Not even for me.”

“But that’s…!”

“No. Hush. You don’t owe me your arse, Dragon. You don’t owe me anything you don’t want to give.”

“I do want to. I _do_.”

“Then maybe someday you will, and if not, we’ll find another way to satisfy each other.” His hand caressed Draco’s back, gentling him, while his voice slid soothingly over him. “You never have to open yourself up like that again, if it doesn’t feel right. There are lots of other things we can do, lots of ways to love each other. Merlin, if you want to shag but you don’t want to bottom, then I’ll do it.”

Draco stiffened. Pulled back. Fixed Harry with wide, disbelieving eyes. “You’d do that?”

Harry almost laughed, then he caught Draco’s expression and sobered. “Of course I would. Dragon, there’s no rule that says you always have to be on the receiving end. The only rule is that we both enjoy it and we both get what we need out of it.”

Draco felt his stomach turn over at that. He’d never considered topping any man, much less Harry Potter. He’d spent all his time on his knees, his back and his belly, taking what was given to him in the way his partner demanded, never thinking it could be any other way. The idea that he had a right to choose was startling. And more than a bit intimidating.

Harry cocked his head, eyeing him curiously. “Is that what you want, Dragon? To shag me?”

“What? No! I mean…” Draco paused, frowned. “I’ve never thought about it.”

“Well, if you ever want to try it, just say so. The offer’s always open.”

“You’re a strange man, Harry Potter,” he murmured.

“Because I’m willing to switch?”

“Because you give a fuck what I want.”

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes at that. “Clearly, you’ve been hanging round with the wrong sort of men.”

Draco gave a soggy laugh. Leaning in to plant another kiss on Harry’s lips, he said, “I’m hungry. Will Kreacher bring us a tray, do you think?”

“If you like. But wouldn’t it be nicer to sit down to a proper meal, with with china plates and cutlery and a glass of wine? He’s decanted a nice Bordeaux for us.”

Draco cocked a sceptical eyebrow. “How nice?”

The wicked grin that spread over Harry’s face made Draco want to smack him. Then kiss him. “A 1959 Château Margaux.”

Draco abruptly sat back on his heels, his mouth dropping open ludicrously. “That’s… _nice_.”

“Yeah.” Harry heaved himself to his feet, sending water cascading off of him and giving Draco a painfully close view of the still-rampant cock outlined in his sodden, clinging pants. “There’s quite a bit of it in the cellars at Grimmauld Place. It’s one of my favorites.”

“I should bloody well think so!” Draco scrambled to follow him out of the tub, reaching for a towel and his wand. “What other disgustingly rare and expensive wines do you have hidden away there?”

“Oh, all sorts. Part of the Black Family legacy that I rather enjoy. And now that you’re a Potter-slash-Peverell,” he hooked an arm around Draco’s waist, pulling him in close to his chest, “it’s your legacy, too.”

“I was a Black before I was a Potter,” Draco pointed out reasonably.

His body liked being this close to Harry’s with nothing but a flimsy layer of sopping-wet cotton between them. The sane corner of his brain informed him, sternly, that he had to break the other man’s hold, keep his distance, let his blood cool a bit, but the lunatic part was in full control now and in no mood for caution. Draping an arm around Harry’s shoulders, he tilted his chin up to meet his eyes and gave him a challenging look.

“By rights, it was already mine.”

“Not after Sirius bequeathed everything he owned to me.” Harry gave Draco a peck on the nose that made him crinkle it up in annoyance. He laughed down into Draco’s sour face and added,“You should be glad that he did. Otherwise, it would have gone into the Ministry’s coffers, along with the rest of the Black Family assets, to pay war reparations.”

 _“Bloody buggering fuck_ ,” Draco muttered.

“Exactly. But now you’ve married into the family and got it all back. Smart move, Malfoy.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, absently, his eyes on the floor and his mind churning.

This was all news to him—not that the Ministry and Wizengamot had taken out their rage over the losses in the war on the surviving pureblood families, but that Harry had saved a fair chunk of the Black fortune from their depredations and that Draco’s marriage to him might be construed as an attempt to get his hands on that fortune. It cast today’s choices in an entirely different light. An ugly light. As if the wizarding world would need another excuse to hate him for marrying their Savior…

“Harry,” he ventured, but as usual, Harry seemed to know where he was going before he got there and moved to cut him off.

“I was only joking, you prat.”

“You were, but they won’t be… the Wizengamot, the _Prophet_ , all those people out there who already think I’m Death Eater scum and a whore to boot. They’ll take it very seriously. And they won’t forgive me for it.”

“You don’t need their forgiveness. No,” Harry cut in, when Draco opened his mouth to protest, “you don’t. Neither of us do. Now stop working yourself up into a strop and let’s go enjoy our disgustingly expensive bottle of wine.”

Draco opened his mouth again, but Harry silenced him with a kiss, then gave him a gentle shove toward the door. Draco huffed and rolled his eyes. That earned him a slap on his bare bum that sent him skipping into the bedroom. In spite of himself—his insecurities and his worries and his guilt over what he’d done to Harry—he was smiling as he scrambled into his ratty pajamas.

 

*** *** ***

 

Draco awoke with a start and bolted upright, the breath sobbing in his lungs, his pulse hammering in his ears. The room was pitch dark, and for a dreadful moment, the images of his dream lingered before his eyes.

_His body spread open on a wide mattress, his face pressed into a satin coverlet of his father’s favorite emerald green, his head full of the scent of his mother’s perfume… Phineas Boggs pounding into his arse, grunting with every stroke, bruising him with his hips… A burst of heat and wetness inside him, followed by his own shuddering orgasm that makes him cry out in shame and release… His spunk spurting across his parents’ bed, slick and foul beneath his belly, soaking into that coverlet… The smell of sex blending with the lingering traces of perfume…_

A hand touched his, making him jump, and a soft voice spoke out of the darkness. “Draco?”

Harry. It was only Harry.

Draco took a gulping breath and twisted away from the presence beside him. Kicking his legs free of the eiderdown quilt, he found the cold wood of the floor with his feet and planted them firmly, anchoring himself. Then he bent forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked softly. “Was it a dream?”

“No. N-nothing,” he stuttered, fighting to breathe evenly around his panic.

He hated beds. Had hated them since that hideous Christmas holiday when his father had brought strange men into his room to bugger him in his own bed. For years he had avoided sleeping in them at all costs—at first just his childhood bed, then any bed at all—and the last man to share one with him had been Phineas Boggs. The man who’d bought him. The man who’d fucked him across his parents’ bed, then forced him to sleep in it at his side.

Harry’s hand came to rest on his hip, and Draco tried not to flinch. Tried and failed.

He had slept in this bed for days without feeling the familiar knot of fear and revulsion in his guts. Until tonight. Until he’d invited another man to share it with him. Then, suddenly, the dreams returned and the bed that had felt so safe for so long was just like all the others. Soiled.

He got to his feet. Harry caught at the hem of his sweatshirt, rolling onto his side and pushing himself up on one elbow.

“Don’t go,” he murmured.

Draco stepped away from his reaching fingers. “I need some air.”

Then he was gone, out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him before Harry could summon arguments or magic to stop him. The cottage was utterly silent, cold and dark, its sheltering magic asleep with its inhabitants. Draco paused to lean against the shut door, to gather his wits, then he padded down the hallway to the sitting room at its end.

This room was as cold as the rest of the house, but the candles on the Christmas tree sprang to life as he came in. By their light, Draco found a fleece throw folded over the back of a chair. He pulled it round him as he huddled into one corner of the settee, and he felt a gentle puff of magical heat radiate from it.

Scrunching down still farther on the old settee, he turned his eyes on the tree. Some of the magical ornaments woke and began to move for him. The constellations in their glass balls twinkled merrily. A spangled broomstick trailing a green and silver ribbon zoomed happily around one branch. A delicate structure of golden wires and glittering mist hovered just above another branch and spun fascinatingly, like a kind of festive time-turner. It was all lovely. Mesmerizing. And it helped ease the panic fluttering in Draco’s chest.

He closed his eyes and breathed out on a sigh. It was nice in here—peaceful and welcoming—with plenty of clear air and no beds.

It was stupid of him to run away, he knew. Harry was not Phineas, and that lovely old bed in there was not the one at the Manor—it smelled of soap and Harry, not sex or his mother’s perfume—but he could not convince himself to venture back into the room. This settee was comfortable, thanks to Harry’s spells, and the subtle magic in the air seemed to wrap him like another blanket. Or loving arms. Harry’s arms.

His thoughts were scattering, his mind sinking into the imagined embrace of his lover, when paws suddenly landed on his chest, startling him awake. He lifted his head to see pale grey eyes peering at him out of a furred face. Abraxas. He blinked. The cat blinked back, then uttered a soft meow and curled up on his midriff. Draco stared at him in annoyance for a moment, then settled back against the cushioned arm of the settee, feeling it reshape itself to support his head just so, and closed his eyes.

Between the protective magic of the room and the rumbling purr of the cat on his chest, he was asleep in minutes.

 

*** *** ***

 

The sound of the bedroom door opening woke Harry out of a light doze. He blinked his eyes opened and watched, fuzzy with lingering sleep, as Draco padded round the bed to perch on the empty side of the mattress. He pulled his bare feet up under him for warmth but kept his eyes on the windows and the grey-white morning light coming through them.

Harry yawned and stretched.

“You okay?” he asked, when it became clear that Draco wouldn’t speak.

The other man nodded.

“Where’d you sleep?”

“The sitting room.” Finally, he turned to fix Harry with his soft, faded, faintly melancholy eyes. “I’m sorry I woke you last night.”

“You had a bad dream. You couldn’t help it.” Harry reached over to brush his fingers across Draco’s leg, then dropped his hand to the quilt. “And I know you don’t like beds.”

“It snowed,” Draco said to the windows, his back to Harry again, effectively dismissing the subject of beds and dreams.

“Yeah.” Harry gave another yawn, then pushed back the blankets. “Want some breakfast?”

Draco nodded.

“Give me five minutes. I’ll whip us up some eggs and toast.”

“Kreacher can do it.”

“Nah, let him sleep. He’s not as young as he used to be, poor old sod, and the happy news yesterday nearly gave him a coronary.”

Draco almost smiled at that. Sliding off the mattress, he stood looking down at Harry. “I’ll start the tea.”

 

Five minutes later, Harry left the bedroom and headed downstairs. He was washed and as well-groomed as he ever got, dressed warmly against the bitter chill in the air, and looking forward to a peaceful morning with his new husband. He stepped into the kitchen to find the back door standing wide open, a familiar owl perched on the back of a chair, and Draco standing stock still at the table with a newspaper in his hands.

“Draco?”

His eyes came up, and Harry saw that all softness, all melancholy was gone from them. They were hard and cold as Arctic ice.

“What is it?” Harry asked, his own innards freezing in alarm.

“This morning’s _Prophet._ ”

“I don’t subscribe to that rag. Who sent it?”

“Granger.”

“The hell she did! Has she lost her mind?”

“No, but according to this, _you_ have.”

“Give that to me!” Harry snapped. He made a grab for the paper just as Draco clenched his fists and crumpled it into a ball between them. “Draco!”

“The fuckers,” Draco snarled, turning his back on Harry and all but flinging the paper at him. “They couldn’t give us one day? Not _one fucking day?!_ ”

“Of course they couldn’t,” Harry said sourly. “When have they ever given me a moment’s peace?”

He caught the paper and smoothed it flat again, his eyes raking the front page and the single headline that blazed across it: ** _Potter and the Prostitute_**

Beneath the headline was a picture of Harry and Draco together in Diagon Alley. Harry instantly recognized the moment when Draco had clung to him, kissed him, and murmured, ‘ _yes_ ’ in the instant before they apparated away. It would have been a beautiful, intimate picture, if it weren’t for the public place they stood in, the crowd of muttering and scowling people around them, and Draco’s escaped-mental-patient attire. And if it weren’t plastered across the _Daily Prophet_ for the entire sodding world to see.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

“Fuck. Fuck, _fuck, FUCK!_ I knew it!” Draco flung himself away from Harry to pace the floor in front of the hearth. He was shaking, but whether with shame or anger Harry couldn’t tell. He kept his arms wrapped around his torso in a death grip as he strode about the room, and his head averted so that his hair concealed his face. His shoulders heaved in something between a breath and a sob. Then he let it out on an ugly, pained sound that lifted the hairs on Harry’s neck.

“I fucking _knew_ this would happen! I told you…”

“It’s okay,” Harry began, but Draco was having none of that.

“It’s _not fucking okay!”_ he shouted. “It’ll never be _fucking okay!_ I told you, Potter! I told you this was a mistake!”

“It’s not!” Harry shouted back, his ever-present temper rising in answer to Draco’s wild fury. “I don’t care what those fuckers say! I’ve never cared and now less than ever!”

“Look at it… _Look!_ ” He leveled an accusatory finger at the paper in Harry’s hands. “That’s the truth, Potter! Every sick, fucking word of it, the _truth!_ ”

Harry glanced back down at the paper, focusing not on the picture this time, but the words beneath it.

 

_The Boy Who Lived caught in clinch with notorious rent-boy! Is Harry Potter looking for love in all the wrong places?_

_Christmas shoppers in Diagon Alley were treated to the shocking spectacle of Harry Potter, the Chosen One, in the arms of runaway sex worker and rumored Dark wizard Draco Malfoy. Passersby stumbled upon the two men kissing passionately outside Quality Quidditch Supply, oblivious to their surroundings until the arrival of the press startled them into flight. Potter and his paramour did not linger to answer questions, but countless witnesses were eager to…_

 

His eyes jumped.

 

_…claimed that Malfoy had his wand out and trained on Potter from the start, while others contended that Potter had Malfoy restrained, and Malfoy was trying to seduce the celebrated Auror into…_

 

And jumped again.

 

 _…must ask ourselves what Draco Malfoy, the disgraced scion of a family renowned for its support of You Know Who, was doing in the company of the Savior of the Wizarding World? Where has Malfoy been since he disappeared from a Knockturn Alley brothel_ _nearly a fortnight ago? What influence does Malfoy have over our soft-hearted Savior and how has he managed to persuade—or perhaps coerce—Potter into rescuing him from the gutter he calls home…_

 

“Bloody fucking hell!”

Harry threw the paper across the room toward the open hearth. It fell short and scattered across the floor. Draco trod over it with barely a glance.

“I can’t do this. I can’t…”

“What are you saying? Draco? Hey!” Harry caught his arm, pulling him to a halt, but didn’t dare take him in his arms as he longed to do. “What are you saying?!”

“It’s _wrong!_ Dragging you down into this…this _shit_ with me! Just look what they’re writing about you!” He flung out a hand toward the pages strewn on the floor. “And this is just the first day! They don’t even know about the wedding, yet! Can you _imagine…?_ ”

“Easily,” Harry retorted. “I’ve been living with this since I was eleven. Get a grip, Draco, it’s just their usual rubbish. It doesn’t _matter!_ ”

“It does when it’s _the truth!_ ” Draco almost screamed, his face contorted and his eyes bright with tears.

“It’s not the truth! You didn’t coerce me into anything!” Draco tried to spin away, to resume his frantic pacing, but Harry snatched at his arm. “No! Don’t do this! You’re getting all worked up about some sensationalist tripe in a rag that’s only good for wiping your arse!”

“You stupid fucking Gryffindor! Always trying to fix everything… save everyone… It’s _too fucking late, Harry! I can’t be saved!_ ” Draco tore free of Harry’s grasp, stumbled back a few steps, then looked wildly around. “My wand… where’s my wand?”

“Draco…”

“I l- left it…” Angry tears streamed down his cheeks and his chest heaved. “Where did I leave it?”

Harry regarded him for a moment in grim silence. Then, abruptly, he stretched out his hand and snapped, “ _Accio_ wand!”

Draco just stared at Harry, his eyes huge, blazing with fury and wet with tears in his thin face. Neither man moved or broke eye contact until the Hawthorn wand came sailing through the doorway and into Harry’s outstretched hand. Harry gave himself a handful of seconds to look at it, turn it between his fingers, consider what he was about to do, before he held it out to Draco.

He watched, his heart up in his throat, as Draco’s fingers curled around the wand and lifted it from his hand. Their eyes met past the slim stick of wood that Draco held up between them.

“Are you going to leave me again?” Harry asked, his voice low and rough. “Are you going to run?”

Draco looked at him, then at the wand. Harry saw his hand tighten, saw him begin to turn on his heel, and the breath rushed out of him on a moan of protest. But Draco did not disappear. No _crack_ split the morning air. Instead, he whirled and ran, straight out the open door, into the back garden. Harry tore after him but pulled up short on the stoop, uncertain what Draco meant to do or whether he should interfere.

Draco sprinted across the dead grass, leaving perfect brown footprints in the light dusting of snow that coated it, then halted in the middle of the yard. He was vibrating with rage and pain, his body shaking, his head tilted back and his blazing eyes fixed on something Harry could not see. For the space of a breath, he did not move. Just stood there with his gaze on the grey-white sky and his wand trembling in his hand. Then he exploded.

A scream tore from his throat, even as light burst from his wand. A wash of power struck the ground at his side, flowing out to melt the snow and boil up into the air. He screamed again—words of helpless fury in it this time—and slashed with his wand to cut a line of fire across the stone wall that edged the garden. Harry instinctively threw up a protective charm to roof the yard and contain the wild magic pouring out of him, then added a shield across the back of the cottage, just in case Draco turned his wrath in that direction, but otherwise, he simply stood back to watch.

Draco seemed to have gone insane. His curses and cries filled the magically-enclosed space, as his power lashed out again and again. Light, heat, spells of all kinds struck earth, plant and stone, rebounding to flare against Harry’s shield. Draco’s hair lifted from his scalp to fly around him in a silver web. The cuffs of his flannel trousers blackened and curled. A dead shrub caught fire. The rough stone surface of the north-facing wall began to melt. And still Draco continued to rage.

Somewhere in the middle of the maelstrom, Harry heard voices at his back. He glanced over his shoulder to see Ron and Hermione standing just inside the Shield charm, staring wide-eyed at the storm of light and magic that filled the garden. He didn’t greet them, didn’t bother to explain, just turned back to watch his husband try to tear the sky down.

Finally, when the air was so thick with smoke and magic that it stung Harry’s eyes, Draco began to flag. He was coughing, staggering slightly, and one violent slash of his arm knocked him off balance. He fell to one knee, then lowered the other and bent over, gasping for air. His wand dropped to the dry grass beside him and his hair slipped over his shoulders to trail on the ground, masking his face.

Harry waited for another handful of seconds, just in case he caught his second wind, then silently banished the shield at his back and ran across the grass to his husband.

Draco knelt in a circle of destruction, his exposed limbs blue-white with cold but his clothing scorched and singed by uncontrolled magic. The snow was gone, the garden wall partially melted and drooping in places. Several ornamental shrubs were reduced to smoking stumps, and two of the trees at the bottom of the garden were in flames.

Harry ignored all of it, even Ron running past him with his wand in his hand to douse the flames. Dropping to his knees beside Draco, Harry gathered him up against his chest and held him protectively. The other man continued to cough and sob, the breath tearing at his throat, but he clung to Harry and made no move for his wand.

“Feel better?” Harry murmured into his hair.

Draco didn’t answer, just leaned more trustingly into Harry’s shoulder.

“It’s fucking cold out here. Can we go inside?”

That earned him a slight nod, so he retrieved Draco’s wand and hauled both of them to their feet. He fought the impulse to scoop Draco’s smaller body up in his arms and carry him into the cottage, knowing his prickly spouse wouldn’t appreciate that. But he kept Draco pulled in tight to his body and cradled his head into the curve of his neck, shielding him from the sight of what his unleashed rage and done.

Back in the kitchen, Harry guided Draco into a chair and stood over him, a hand on his shoulder to steady him. His angry gaze fell on Hermione, who had the good grace to look abashed.

“Thanks for the wedding present, Hermione,” Harry snapped. “It was a big hit.”

She flushed and lifted her chin at a stubborn angle. “I thought you should know what the press is saying.”

“You thought wrong.”

“I told her it was a mistake,” Ron said, as he stepped into the warm kitchen and shut the door. “Told her you wouldn’t want to read that shite.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t stop her, did you?” Harry retorted.

Ron rolled his eyes and grimaced. “When was the last time you tried that, mate?”

Harry just grunted at that. He knew that Ron was right but had no intention of admitting it. He wasn’t letting go of his anger so easily. Not as long as Draco was huddled there, his clothes smoking, his face streaked with tears, so hurt and so angry that he couldn’t contain his own magic.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said, a trifle defensively, “I didn’t mean to upset you, but you can’t hide from the rest of the world forever.”

“I’d have settled for one day,” Draco retorted, his voice a rough growl, his throat raw from screaming. He looked up as Hermione sat down in the chair across from him. He was no longer sobbing and his tears had dried, but the anger was still there. Weary and bitter now, instead of raging, but unmistakable.

“You can’t let what they say in the _Prophet_ get to you,” Hermione said, with barely a hint of her usual bossiness. “It’s just noise. It doesn’t change anything between you and Harry.”

“She’s right, mate,” Ron chimed in, as he dropped bonelessly into a chair at Hermione’s side. “You want to survive marriage with that prat,” he waved a hand at Harry, “you have to learn to ignore the bloody papers. Trust me, I know. It’s the worst part of breathing the same air as the bally Chosen One.”

Draco’s mouth thinned. Rage and pain flared up in his eyes again, and a hint of fresh tears. “Seriously? You’re telling me that you don’t care about any of that?” He flicked his fingers at the paper, making the edges lift and curl in a wash of unintended magic.

“Why should I?” Ron countered.

“Because your best mate just married a _whore!_ ” Draco snarled. “And before long, the whole _fucking world_ is going to know about it!”

Ron blinked at him, startled by his vehemence and evident self-loathing.

“You can’t tell me that doesn’t matter, Weasley! You can’t pretend this is just another story for the _Prophet!_ It’s _Harry_ Bloody _Potter!_ Their fucking _Savior!_ Snogging a Knockturn Alley slag in the middle of the Christmas Rush! It didn’t take them _one fucking day_ to figure out that Harry leaned on the Wizengamot to clear my name! They’re already painting me as the vile seducer, buggering my way out of a prison sentence! What will they say when they find out about the marriage, for Fuck’s sake?!”

Ron slapped his hand on the table, cutting Draco off in mid-rant, and glared fiercely at him. “Enough of this shite! You’re Draco Malfoy, the most uppity, arrogant, pureblood tosser who ever breathed, so stop whinging and pull yourself together!”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but Ron leveled a finger at him and went on, “I mean it. Since when do you care what anyone thinks of you? You’re a _Malfoy,_ for fuck’s sake! And he’s Harry Fucking Potter, the bloody Chosen One! He could marry a Blast-Ended Skrewt and the wizarding world would have to kiss its flaming arse!”

“Are you comparing him to a Blast-Ended Skrewt?” Harry asked dazedly.

“I’m making a point,” Ron said firmly. “I know it’s hard to ignore the kind of shite they print about you. About _both_ of you. But enough is enough. Harry’s your husband, Ferret, and he loves you. Merlin knows why, when you’re such a stupid stubborn git of a Slytherin, but he does. So quit your whinging, pull up your Big Boy pants, and get on with it.”

Draco’s wide, expressive mouth twitched. “My Big Boy pants?”

“Yeah, you know… the ones that hold up your hairy bollocks.”

Draco stared at him for another beat, then suddenly let his breath out on a sob of laughter. “What do you… kn-now about my bollocks?” he managed to ask, between gasping breaths. As he got the question out, he clapped his hand over his mouth and shut his eyes against a rush of tears.

“Nothing, thank Merlin.”

“F-fuck me!” Draco gasped, his entire body now shaking with mingled sobs and laughter.

Harry scrambled into the chair next to him and looped an arm around his shoulders. Draco fell against him, laughing so hard that he couldn’t keep himself upright. Harry held him tightly, cradling his head in the hollow of his own shoulder. From across the table, Ron and Hermione watched in bemusement as Draco laughed and wept into Harry’s shoulder and Harry gazed fondly down at him with tears in his eyes.

“Well. If I’d known smutty jokes were all he needed, I’d have started telling them a week ago,” Ron stated.

Hermione watched Draco clutch at Harry’s arm for support, noting the scorch marks on his sleeve. “Those pajamas are a disgrace, Malfoy,” she said tartly. “If you’re going to be a media figure, photographed on the arm of the most famous wizard in the world, you need to start dressing the part.”

“You’re really giving Malfoy fashion advice?” Ron countered. “ _You?_ ”

She folded her arms defiantly. “I’m doing more than that. I’m taking him shopping.”

Draco gave another wrenching sob of laughter at that and gasped into Harry’s damp shoulder, “Bloody Gryffindors!”

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	13. Interlude: Draco and Hermione's Adventures in Soho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had not intended to write about Draco and Hermione's shopping trip, but enough people expressed an interest in it that I decided to include it. This is just a short digression. It doesn't do much to further the plot, but it delves into Draco's psyche a bit and lets him have some fun with Hermione.
> 
> FAIR WARNING! I've only been to London once, fifteen years ago, and I did not visit Soho, so all the details in this chapter are pulled from pictures and my imagination. I tried to keep it vague so as not to annoy those who are familiar with the area, but I may still have gotten things wrong. I apologize in advance for that!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this little detour. Please let me know what you think!

 

The noise, the lights, the traffic, the sheer volume of people were an assault to the senses. There were Muggles everywhere. Every size, shape, color and age, alone and in tightly-packed mobs. Trailing children and pets like kite tails. Clutching bags and toting knapsacks, with ghastly little electronic devices pressed to their ears or cradled in their hands. And talking. Always talking. Rapid-fire, full volume, accents from all over the country and the world flying by faster than Viktor Krum on a Firebolt.

Draco was dazed and nearly panicked within thirty seconds of apparating into the Muggle Hell known as Soho. He clung to Hermione’s arm, letting her drag him through the scrum of scurrying Muggles, until she forcibly broke his numbing grip and slipped her hand through his elbow. Then he had to walk at her side and pretend to escort her down the crowded pavement, while frantically searching for an avenue of escape.

“What are we _doing_ here?” he whinged, as he dodged an entire family of Muggles all so thickly bundled in down jackets and knit caps that they looked like insect pupae.

“Getting you some decent clothes for your visit to the Burrow tomorrow,” Granger informed him, crisply. “And before you say it, _no_ , you may _not_ wear what you have on. Not if you ever hope to reconcile the Weasleys to your marriage.”

“What? This is a Weasley jumper!” Draco protested, plucking at the hideous, green thing he wore over a few layers of t-shirt.

He did look ridiculous and he knew it. He’d raided Harry’s wardrobe to find something other than scorched flannel pajamas to wear, and the result was infelicitous, to say the least. The layers of cotton and knit made him look rather lumpy about the torso, while the khaki trousers hung so loosely on his hips that he’d been forced to spell them up for the sake of decency, and they still dragged on the pavement at his heels. A military parka hid the worst of it from view, but it was so large that his fingers barely poked out of the sleeves.

It was fucking embarrassing, actually, being seen in public like this.

“Honestly,” Granger sighed, shooting a sideways glance at him. “How does a man with such impeccable taste manage to look such a fright?”

“Oh, that’s lovely. I feel _ever_ so much better. May we go home, now, before I have a nervous breakdown?”

“We may not. And it’s your own fault we’re out here in the middle of Muggle London only two days before Christmas! I was perfectly willing to try Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade. You’re the one who insisted on going where no one would recognize you.”

Draco just scowled at that and jerked the black knit cap he wore down to his eyebrows. He knew that she was right, but he had no intention of admitting it. Especially not when she was so patently enjoying his discomfiture.

Bloody Gryffindors. Weren’t they afraid of anything? Didn’t she understand that he’d spent the last three and a half years as a fucking _fugitive?_ Afraid to show his face in Wizarding Britain? Isolated, hunted, _terrified?_ He hadn’t been in a crowd, except up onstage where no one could touch him, since he left Hogwarts. Did she really expect him to just shrug that off and stroll out into the world with a smile on his face?

They reached a huge, ugly building with white letters above the wide glass doors that read ‘Marks & Spencer’. Draco came to an abrupt halt, pulling Granger to a stop with him.

“What the _fuck?_ ” he demanded, as his eyes traveled ever farther upward to where the brick and glass building seemed to be holding up the grey canopy of clouds.

“It’s a department store,” Granger informed him, a laugh in her voice that made him bristle.

“I don’t care what in buggering fuck it is. I’m not going in there.”

A Muggle brushed past him, bumping his shoulder, and he involuntarily flinched at the contact. He edged a step back from the doors and the flow of people through them.

“Come on, Malfoy. Don’t be such an infant.”

Gripping his arm in fierce fingers, she dragged him relentlessly through the doors.

The department store was even worse inside than out. It was huge and baffling, packed to the rafters with an infinite selection of things for which a decent wizard had no earthly use, and thronged with helpful Sales clerks who were no bloody help at all.

Draco discovered this when he tried to choose a pair of socks. Confronted by an entire wall of socks in a staggering variety of materials, colors and sizes, he made the mistake of asking a clerk called Liam for advice. All he got for his trouble was a smirk and a shrug that made him feel unutterably stupid, and a falsely-sweet suggestion that he just pick something he liked.

Only Granger’s gimlet eye kept Draco from gifting the superior Liam with a bad case of boils. Then she took pity on him and helped him choose some socks.

He had much the same experience when shopping for pants. He found himself surrounded by rack up on rack of cellophane-wrapped packages bearing enigmatic labels such as ‘boxers’, ‘briefs,’ and the even more incomprehensible ‘boxer briefs’. Granger wouldn’t come into that part of the store with him, so he had to navigate it on his own. He came out again flushed, embarrassed and thoroughly annoyed, only to have Granger laugh at him for being so gormless.

“Seriously, Malfoy? You can’t even buy your own underpants?”

He scowled at that and stomped away, clutching his parcel protectively. “Considering that I’ve never actually done it before, I’d say I was phenomenally successful.”

“Never?” She scurried to keep up with him. “Really?”

He shot her a glare that would have shriveled a lesser woman in her boots. It only made Granger laugh—the heartless cow. “Never. Before the war, my mother saw to it that my wardrobe was refreshed and updated, as needed. After the war…” He hesitated, and the outrage drained out of him. “I didn’t need much.”

“So you’ve never been shopping for clothes before?” Granger ventured, the laughter in her voice replaced by curiosity and a trace of pity.

Draco shrugged and tried for a neutral, detached tone. “My mother always took me with her to choose my robes and suits and cloaks and what have you. But the invisible layers—the socks and pants—the house-elves bought. Or so I always assumed.”

“Well, it’s past time you learned to take care of yourself,” Granger said briskly. “And speaking of suits, we should see what they have here. I’m sure Harry would be willing to pay for bespoke suits, but the only tailors I’m familiar with are wizards, and that means risking being recognized.”

Draco didn’t have it in him to argue. His head was spinning and his nerves were raw. All he wanted was to be done.

 

An hour later, he finally broke. He was standing on a low platform in front of three angled mirrors, while Granger sat on a small couch to one side with piles of jackets and trousers around her. He wore a pair of charcoal grey wool trousers, a matching waistcoat, and a fitted white shirt. He looked trim and elegant. And he felt completely wrong.

Granger eyed him up and down, a thoughtful frown on her face and her hand thrust in her pocket where she could finger her wand. “You really are too thin, you know. Nothing fits quite right. But this one is close, and I can take in the trousers. What do you think?”

Draco scowled at his reflection, fairly itching to get out of this suit—out of his own skin, if he was being honest—and said, “I don’t like it.”

Granger sighed. “How about the black one?”

“No.” He turned for the dressing room, avoiding her eyes. She was frustrated and he didn’t blame her, but he absolutely was not buying one of these suits. “None of them.”

“Draco…”

“I need to get out of here.”

With that, he disappeared into the dressing room and, in a blatant show of illegal magic, spelled the suit off and his street clothes back on. The narrow look Granger gave him told him that she knew exactly what he’d done when he returned less than a minute later. She opened her mouth to deliver a lecture on the dangers of flouting the Statute of Secrecy, but he didn’t give her a chance.

Shooting her a quelling glare, he grumbled, “Let’s get some lunch,” and snatched up the bags full of socks and pants.

“There’s a café on the top floor…”

“Not here.”

“Honestly,” she huffed, but she followed him out of the store without further complaint.

 

They found a pub near Carnaby Street with a bust of Shakespeare in the window. Draco spotted it from the pavement and dragged Granger inside, saying, “That’s the first civilized thing I’ve seen all day. Come on.”

It was a nice, cozy place, with pleasant servers and decent food. By the time Draco had a toasted sandwich, some greasy chips and most of a pint in him, he was beginning to mellow. Until a group of chattering Muggles blew through the door, that is. At the sudden influx of noise and people, he flinched and ducked his head, instinctively trying to hide his face.

Granger waited until the crowd had moved past them, then she reached over to touch his arm.

“They’re Muggles, Malfoy. You don’t have to worry.”

He took a deep breath, willing the tension to leave his body, then risked a glance around the pub. He caught the eye of a girl who was blatantly staring at him, and she hastily looked away. The young man beside her continued to eye Draco up and down for another few seconds, then he, too, turned his attention to his drink.

“They’re staring,” he muttered.

“Not because they recognize you.”

“Why, then?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him and smirked. “Maybe it’s because you’re the prettiest person in the room.” He gave her a sour look that made her chuckle. “Or maybe it’s that hair.”

Draco grimaced and pulled the knit cap from his pocket, but when he started to put it on, Granger caught his wrist.

“Don’t. It’s okay, I promise.”

He slowly returned the hat to his pocket.

Granger studied him for a minute or two, chewing thoughtfully on her sandwich. Then she ventured, “Why are you having such a difficult time with this, Draco? Choosing clothes, I mean. Are you worried about spending Harry’s money?”

“No.” Draco toyed with a chip, pulling it apart and dropping the shredded pieces back in the basket. “I don’t like depending on him this way, but I know I cant wear his cast-offs forever.” He gestured at his mismatched, ill-fitting clothes and lifted his lip in disgust.

Granger rolled her eyes. “No, you most certainly can’t! But if it’s not the money, what’s the problem? Do we need to go someplace nicer? There’s Harrods or Selfridges or…”

He shook his head, cutting her off. “I don’t know what those places are, but I’m sure they’d only make it worse.”

She sighed in exasperation. “Boys. You’re all hopeless when it comes to clothes, but somehow, I thought you would be different. You always dressed so beautifully…”

“ _Draco Malfoy_ dressed beautifully. _Draco Malfoy_ wore bespoke suits and the most expensive, custom-tailored robes.” He looked up and met her gaze squarely. “I’m not Draco Malfoy anymore.”

Granger pondered this for a handful of seconds, her face thoughtful, her eyes studying his face. He tried not to flush under their scrutiny. Then, quite suddenly, she gave him an understanding smile and asked, “What does Draco Potter wear?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted softly. “That’s the problem.”

“Hmm.” She sat back and began to chew on the inside of her cheek. “Okay, let’s narrow it down. Is there anything you know you _don’t_ want?”

“Suits,” Draco said promptly.

“Suits?” she echoed in disbelief.

“I hate them. They make me feel like a Malfoy. And they make me itch.”

Her eyebrows scaled up. “What will you wear under your robes—once you get over your aversion to wizard shops and actually buy some, that is?”

“What does Harry wear under his robes?”

“Jeans and t-shirts,” she replied with a grimace, “but Harry is a slob.”

“Jeans would work.”

“Not for any kind of formal wear.”

“Which I need for what, exactly? I don’t go into an office. I don’t attend parties. I don’t even dress for afternoon tea with my mum!”

“Harry is a public figure and you’re his husband. You’ll need formal attire for public appearances, Ministry functions…”

“Merlin, Granger! Let me get used to walking down the street without looking over my shoulder before you have me chatting up Kingsley Shacklebolt!”

“Right.” She grinned. “Sorry.”

“No suits,” Draco repeated firmly, “and no black.”

Granger’s eyebrows shot up again but she said nothing.

“Or green,” he added.

Draco had always loved green, especially when paired with silver. Slytherin colors. But he was anxious to put aside his old habits with his old name, to throw off the taint of snobbish pureblood values so closely linked to his old House and start afresh. New name, new life, new colors.

Besides, Slytherin green was his father’s favorite color. Enough said.

If Granger noticed his slight shudder at the thought of his father, she kept it to herself. “What colors do you like?” she asked.

He thought for a moment, then said, “Blue.”

“Okay. What else? Have a look around and tell me if you see anything you like. Or hate, for that matter.”

Draco gazed around at the Muggles crowding the pub, studying the fashions they wore. After years of viewing clothes merely as something that had to come off before he got down to business, it was a struggle to think of them as useful, comfortable or attractive. But once he really looked, he saw a staggering variety of styles, layers and colors. And that was without bringing the coats, hats, scarves, boots and other paraphernalia into it! His head started to spin.

Finally, in desperation, he nodded at a young woman standing with her boyfriend at a high table in the center of the room. “What is that she has on her legs? I can’t tell if they’re stockings, thermal underwear, or some odd kind of trousers.”

Granger looked and grinned. “Those are called leggings. They’re sort of in between stockings and trousers.”

“They look comfortable.”

“They are.” Her eyes mocked him gently. “Girls like them because they show off their legs and arses.”

Draco gave her a smug look. “My arse would look spectacular in them. And my legs wouldn’t look too shabby, either.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t, but you may have trouble finding a pair cut for men.”

He shrugged grandly. “Anything that stretchy can’t be too hard to fit.”

“I suppose not.” Her lips twitched.

Draco narrowed his eyes at her and demanded, “What’s so fucking funny? You think I can’t carry off a pair of leggings with style?”

“I’m quite sure you can. I’m just trying to picture it…” She cocked her head and grinned. “The man who was embarrassed to buy his own pants, breezing into a women’s boutique and asking to try on leggings!”

“Just watch me! You bloody Gryffindors aren’t the only ones with bollocks!”

Granger laughed outright at that. “Bollocks will just get in the way, in this instance, but I would dearly love to see Draco Malf— uh, _Potter_ prancing around a Carnaby Street shop in women’s leggings!”

“I’ve pranced around in far worse,” he pointed out, dryly.

“Then you won’t mind giving me a private show!”

She slid out of the booth and retrieved her little, beaded bag with its Undetectable Extension charm. It now contained all his purchases of the morning, so it made slithering noises when she waved it at the street door, tossing items out of their wrappings.

“After you, Mr. Potter!”

Throwing her a taunting look, Draco led the way out of the pub.

Carnaby Street was everything that Draco found most unnerving about the world beyond the doors of Harry’s cottage. It was loud, vibrant, crowded, colorful, disorienting, and thoroughly intimidating to a man unused, as Draco was, to being out in public. But it was also the perfect place to discover who Draco Potter was and what face he wanted to show to the world. Or to his husband’s adopted family, anyway. The world could wait until he’d survived dinner with the Weasleys.

Spurred on by the friendly challenge from Granger, Draco found the chaos of Carnaby Street almost bearable. And the longer he and Granger prowled its pavements, stopping to stare at every shop window and turning to watch the colorful Muggles stroll by, the closer he came to actually enjoying it. He caught himself laughing at the more outrageous fashions, exchanging barbs with Granger about her taste in Christmas jumpers, and assessing the tight arse of a young man in joggers who gave him the eye. Granger elbowed him in the ribs and huffed at that one. Then she admitted that he had a very nice arse, if a somewhat vacant smile.

“Definitely a plonker,” she opined, as the young man took his pert arse and come-hither looks off down the street.

“But a pretty plonker,” Draco amended.

“Behave yourself, Malfoy. You’re a married man.”

“And a world-class judge of male pulchritude. It’s a professional interest, only, I assure you.”

“You’re retired!”

“Hmph. You’re just miffed that he didn’t try to pull _you_ ,” he retorted, then ducked as she took a swing at him with her bag.

“He wouldn’t know what to do with me, if he did.”

“Not a clue. But then, neither would I, so I’m not in a position to criticize.”

Granger laughed and linked her arm through his, dragging him into the nearest shop. “Come on, let’s see if they have leggings in your size. I still want that private show.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Harry dropped down onto the brocade cushions and reached for his teacup. Beside him, Draco was curled into the corner of the settee, his legs folded beneath him, sipping his own tea and staring dreamily at the Christmas tree. Harry put a hand on his thigh to stroke the soft, stretchy fabric that encased it.

“I like these.”

Draco’s eyes gleamed at him over the rim of his cup. “I thought you might.”

“They don’t leave much to the imagination.”

“Not since Granger spelled them to fit properly.”

Harry’s brows rose up to touch his fringe. “In the shop?”

“Yes.” Draco took a sip of tea and murmured, “It was quite daring. She pulled out her wand, right there in the Ladies’ Dressing Room…”

“You were in the Ladies’ Dressing Room?”

“As I said.” He took another sip to hide his smile. “Very daring. I’m beginning to understand why she was sorted to Gryffindor.”

Harry chuckled, stroked Draco’s thigh again, then let his hand wander up to where the loose, soft, cloud-grey jumper fell over his hip. It bore a strong resemblance to the sweatshirt that he’d worn to their wedding, but where that garment was old, stretched, faded and disreputable, this one was perfectly cut and subtly tailored to fall gracefully from his square shoulders around his slender torso. It was elegant, flattering, and so luxurious to the touch that Harry couldn’t keep his hands off it for more than two minutes.

He clasped Draco’s hip, then petted his arm where the loose sleeve lay along it. “Did she use magic on this, too?”

“Just a little.” The gleam in Draco’s eyes was positively wicked, now. “It was originally made for someone with breasts.”

Harry laughed outright at that, his fingers still petting the soft knit. “I’m glad she fixed it. I like it even more than the… what are those things called?”

“Leggings,” Draco prompted softly.

“Leggings. You’re turning into quite the expert on Muggle fashion.”

“There’s no need to be rude, Potter.”

“Prat,” Harry murmured, as he leaned in to drop a light kiss on Draco’s lips. “Beautiful, stylish, incredibly sexy prat.”

“Hm. Admit it, Potter. When you first saw me in these clothes, you were shocked.”

“Not shocked. Surprised, maybe.” Harry cocked his head, smiling playfully at his husband. “I was expecting a bit more of the custom-tailored, buttoned-down Malfoy look. All in green and black and silver.”

“The perfect Slytherin prince.”

“But this is nicer.”

“Leggings and cashmere?”

“Mm.” He kissed Draco again, more lingeringly, and murmured against his lips, “I love the leggings and cashmere. I can’t stop touching them.”

“I noticed.”

“That’s why you bought them, isn’t it? To drive me barmy with wanting to touch?”

“I bought them because they’re warm and comfortable and because I have it on very good authority that I look smashing in them,” Draco taunted softly. “Driving you barmy is just an agreeable side effect.”

“Dare I ask whose authority?”

“All the lovely women in the shop. And Granger, of course, but since she married the Weasel, I don’t put much stock in her opinion.”

“You gave them a show? All those lovely women?”

“I did.” Draco settled into Harry’s side and leaned his head against his shoulder. He was almost purring under Harry’s stroking hand, and his eyes were drooping closed in contentment. “It was supposed to be just for Granger, but once she got done with her tailoring, she wanted to show off the result. Charisse and Linda and Melanie and the salesgirl with blue hair—Rae, I think she was called—were very impressed.”

“I’ll just bet they were.”

Draco tilted back his head to fix Harry with a sultry look from beneath his lashes. “As it happens, I’m used to flaunting my assets in a good deal less than a pair of leggings and for a much more demanding audience, so the show was a raging success.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry said amiably. “I never have that much fun shopping for clothes.”

“Well, you’ve never been shopping with me, have you?”

“I’ll have to fix that.” Harry caught his chin between his finger and thumb, tilted it up, and bent to capture his lips again. When he came up for air, he added, dryly, “And give Hermione a piece of my mind. She’s out of control.”

“Please don’t. I like her a little brazen.”

Harry just laughed and gathered him closer. Draco snuggled into Harry’s side, burrowed his head into his shoulder, and let his eyes fall closed again. He smiled as Harry’s hands wandered over his cashmere-clad back.

“Is this what you’re planning to wear to the Burrow?” Harry murmured into the warm silence.

“Are you mad?” Draco demanded, pushing away to look at him in disbelief. “Granger would have my bollocks on toast!”

“So it’ll be the Slytherin prince, then?”

Draco cocked his head, and Harry caught a hint of worry in his eyes. “Is that what you want?”

“I want you to relax, enjoy yourself, have a huge dinner, and make nice with my family. What you wear to do that is your own business.”

Draco studied him for another minute, his face giving nothing away, then settled back into his place against Harry’s shoulder. “You always were an incurable optimist.”

“And you’re the most cynical git in nature.”

“Well, this cynical git is going to do you a favor and skive off dinner tomorrow.”

“What?! You wouldn’t!” Harry protested. “Draco…”

“You’ll come up with some excuse for your mystery date missing the festivities. Tell them he’s contracted the Dragon Pox. Better yet, pretend it’s a _her_. That will make Molly ecstatic. She’ll resurrect all her hopes of snaring you as a son-in-law and spend the evening throwing Ginny at your head.” He shot Harry another veiled look through his lashes. “Consider it my Christmas gift to her.”

“How about a nice batch of biscuits, instead?”

Draco gave a little spurt of reluctant laughter. “Imbecile. She’s seen the pictures in the _Prophet._ A batch of biscuits is not going to reconcile her to her Golden Child marrying the town prostitute.”

“Maybe not, but it’s a start.”

“Harry.” He pushed himself upright again and twisted round to glare at Harry. “That woman would rather eat dragon dung than any biscuits I give her.”

“So no biscuits. How about fudge? Or plum pudding?”

“I loathe plum pudding…”

“Fudge, then.”

“Argh, no, you _git!_ ” Draco raged helplessly. “That’s not what I meant!”

“Dark chocolate fudge with walnuts. I have a brilliant recipe!”

Jumping to his feet, he caught Draco’s hand and dragged him toward the door. Draco hung back, trying to slow his headlong charge, but Harry’s superior weight won the day. They were halfway down the stairs before Draco caught his breath enough to launch a new argument.

“What about all that equal partnership rot? Setting boundaries and negotiating terms? Don’t I get any say in this?”

“Not if you’re going to talk rubbish.”

“Harry! Stop bullying me!”

“Oh, that’s low.” Harry stopped one step down from Draco and shot a grin over his shoulder. “Now you’ve got me by the short and curlies.”

Draco crossed his arms defiantly and scowled down at him. “I am not okay with this.”

“With what, exactly?”

“Spending my Christmas Eve with the Weasleys.”

“Really?” Harry turned around to confront him, all traces of a smile wiped from his face. “You really, truly don’t want to go? Because we can stay home, if that’s how you feel.”

“We?” Draco faltered, his scowl slipping into a troubled frown.

“ _We_. We are spending Christmas Eve together, Draco Potter, whether that’s here or at the Burrow. I want to see the Weasleys—you know I do—but if I have to choose between them and you, I’ll pick you every time. So tell me the truth. Do you want to stay home?”

Draco’s face twisted with indecision. Something akin to panic crept into his eyes. “She’s seen the pictures.”

“Probably,” Harry said evenly.

“She hated me before, but now…”

“Now you’re my husband. Part of the family.”

“And you’re sure you’re ready to tell her that?”

“It will only get harder the longer we wait.”

Draco closed his eyes for a moment, fighting some internal demon that Harry could not help him with. Then he sighed, wilted, and murmured “Dark chocolate walnut fudge?”

A smile of surpassing happiness swept over Harry’s face. He tightened his hold on Draco’s hand and started down the stairs again, pulling his husband along with him.

“It’s absolutely delicious and so easy to make that even a useless wanker like you can do it. Trust me…”

“I don’t.”

“You’ll learn.”

Draco sighed again as he stepped into the kitchen.

This was not going to end well.

 

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Shakespeare's Head pub is real. I've never been there, but it is the obvious place for Draco to eat, being a Shakespeare nut and in need of something familiar. That's where I'd eat, if I ever visited Carnaby Street. :)


	14. The Man in the Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I've got another portrait for you but I'm really nervous about this one, so please be gentle with me! This is Draco after he left behind his Lady Stardust/Colin Creevey persona and started to heal. It's my first try at achieving natural skin tones with digital paint. I hope it works!!
> 
> Enjoy the portrait and the chapter, and please let me know what you think!!

 

_The Man in the Mirror_

* * *

 

He gazed steadily at the face in the mirror, mapping its features, studying its planes and curves and muted colors. It seemed to him as if his face had faded in the last weeks. He’d always been pale, with lashes and brows that were nearly colorless, but now even the delicate tints that had once painted it had gone soft and old and wan, like a shirt that had been washed too many times. The signs of dissipation and self-disgust that had marred his features for so long were smoothing out, but he didn’t think the weariness would ever go, or the hint of sadness in his the winter-grey eyes.

He pushed his hair back, but it immediately slid through his fingers to fall around his face and shoulders again. The soft strands hung past his waist in a thick, shining, platinum curtain, but they were not a uniform length, and the shorter layers gave it a slightly shaggy look. He supposed it was because he’d never bothered to trim it. He’d worn his hair neatly layered for many years, then simply stopped cutting it, so instead of a clean, precise style, it was a random mess of grown-out layers that fell however they liked. Draco had paid little attention to it until now—an odd thing, considering how many hours he’d spent staring in his mirror at the club, perfecting his make-up and costumes—but something about the way Harry looked at him made him want to actually _see_ himself for a change. See what Harry saw. Understand that face in the mirror.

The face of Draco Potter—if this strange, wan creature could really be the man Harry Potter loved enough to marry.

He lifted a hand to touch his cheek, to reassure himself of his own solidity, and saw the gleam of platinum on his finger. Curling his fingers loosely, he pressed the metal to his lips. It was warm from his skin. Warm and _real_. Just like the hand that wore it. Just like the marriage it symbolized.

Draco Potter was real. How was that even possible?

He shook his head slightly in disbelief, his eyes dwelling on the ring. Then a movement in the glass drew his eyes up to see Harry standing in the doorway. Draco didn’t turn to face the other man, but smiled at his reflection and saw his eyes light up in response. Harry crossed to the dressing table—another gorgeous antique that he’d brought from Grimmauld Place just for Draco—and stopped behind his chair. Strong, calloused hands brushed the hair back from his shoulders, then rested on them.

“All right?” Harry asked softly.

Draco hesitated, then nodded. He wasn’t all right, not really, but he was trying. Dinner with the Weasleys hung over his head like the Sword of Damocles, a constant threat that he knew he had to simply accept. He couldn’t avoid it, couldn’t hide in the cottage any longer, couldn’t come between Harry—his _husband_ he forcibly reminded himself—and his adoptive family.

“You look amazing.”

Draco almost snorted at that, but he realized that Harry meant it, so he controlled his reaction. He was dressed like a Muggle in jeans bleached nearly to white, fleece-lined boots, and a river driver’s shirt in deep indigo blue. He’d chosen the shirt for its saturated color, but now he wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. Pale as he was, with skin, hair and eyes all devoid of color, the shirt stood out glaringly and made him feel distinctly self-conscious. As if he were trying to call attention to himself, which was the very last thing he wanted to do. But Harry loved the shirt, had commented on it when he first saw it that morning, and Draco wanted to please him, so he left it on.

Harry’s fingers toyed with his hair, drawing his attention back to his own reflection. He gazed thoughtfully at the fall of silver-gilt around his face, then said, “Maybe I should cut it.”

Harry’s hands fell still and his eyes jumped to meet Draco’s in the mirror. The horror in his face was unmistakable.

“Please don’t.” Then he caught himself and temporized, “It’s your hair and your choice, but I think it’s beautiful like this. I wouldn’t care if you never cut it again.”

Draco frowned slightly, remembering a day, many years ago now, when he’d looked at himself and wondered why his father despised him so. The damning word that had come to him then echoed in his head now.

“It makes me look… feminine,” he ventured, with a slight grimace.

Harry gave a snort of laughter. “That’s not a word I’d use to describe you.”

Draco lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “Seriously, Potter?” he chided. “Have you looked at me recently?”

“Every chance I get. Why?”

Draco rolled his eyes and gestured at the mirror. “Prat. _Look!_ ”

“With pleasure.” Harry bent to rest his chin on Draco’s head and gazed at their reflections, his eyes wide and earnest. After a pause, he asked, “What am I looking for, exactly?”

Draco just laughed and rolled his eyes again, earning him a kiss pressed to his temple before Harry straightened up.

“Why are you worrying about this now, Dragon? You’ve had that gorgeous fucking head of hair for _how_ many years? And suddenly you’re worried about how it looks?”

“I don’t want to make a fool of myself tonight. Or of you.”

“You couldn’t.”

“No? I’ve made a lifetime habit of disappointing the people I love.”

“Then they didn’t deserve your love in the first place. Seriously, Draco, what brought this on?”

Draco shrugged and dropped his eyes to the polished wood of the table top. He absently fingered an ivory comb that lay on it.

“I was thinking about my father. What he… what he thought of me. What made him treat me the way he did. I always assumed it was because he saw,” he gestured at his reflection again, “this. He knew, before I did, what I was.”

“And what is that?” Harry asked, very softly, his gaze catching and holding Draco’s.

Draco just stared at him, mouth hard and eyes grim.

“You are so wrong, Draco. Please stop calling yourself those things, even in your head.”

It took Draco a long minute to master himself, to summon the courage to ask the question he so longed to ask, but finally he did it. Drawing in a ragged breath, his eyes never leaving Harry’s, he murmured, “If my father and I are both so wrong, then what am I, Harry? When you look at me, what do you see?”

Harry studied Draco’s reflection, reading the seriousness of the question and the depths of his uncertainty. His green eyes were grave, intent, telling Draco that he recognized just how much his answer mattered. When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful and sad.

“I see a man who’s been used and abused and abandoned so many times, by so many people, that he doesn’t remember what it’s like to be loved anymore. He’s been treated like an object for so long that he doesn’t remember what it’s like to be human. He’s tired.” His hand drifted down the long fall of pale hair that spilled onto Draco’s shoulder and his voice dropped to a murmur. “So tired. All he wants to do is hide and forget. Stop hurting. Stop _feeling_. Become a ghost.”

Draco wanted to shut his eyes at that, but he couldn’t. He was trapped and held by Harry’s steady gaze. “If that’s really what you see, why are you still here?” he whispered.

“Because I also see that the real Draco Malfoy is still in there, and he’s trying to come back. He’s getting a little closer to me every day. Making snarky jokes, taunting me, challenging me, reminding me why we’re so good together. And because it doesn’t matter how far you run or how deep you hide, I love you with my whole heart. I will go on loving you, no matter what you are, until I draw my last breath.”

Still meeting Harry’s gaze, Draco said, quietly, “I don’t want to be a ghost anymore. I did, for a long time. Starting that summer, when I had to… when it all went to shite, I did everything I could to erase myself. I tried to use magic. Then I tried running away and changing my name. Then I tried opium. But it never worked. I was always just solid enough to feel what they were doing to me and to loathe every second of it. I wasn’t a ghost, just a coward who was too weak and frightened to end it, good for nothing but getting fucked ’til my body gave out.”

“You were never a coward,” Harry breathed, stooping to bury his face in Draco’s hair, his fingers tightening fiercely on Draco’s shoulders, “or weak.”

“I was, Harry. Maybe I still am, I don’t know. Maybe, if I had the courage of a Gryffindor,I’d be out there on my own, living as Draco Malfoy, instead of letting you save me _again_. But I don’t want to disappear anymore, and I don’t want to be on my own. I just want to be Draco Potter, a regular bloke, with a home that feels warm and friendly, and a husband who makes me tea a dozen times a day to cheer me up.”

“Tea fixes everything,” Harry murmured, his words muffled by hair.

Draco slipped a hand up behind Harry’s neck to hold him close. “You fix everything. I don’t know how in buggering fuck you do it, and I’ll probably never admit this to you again, but you… fix me. You make it okay to be me, even when I hate myself so much that it hurts just to exist.”

“Oh, Dragon.”

Draco summoned a short, humorless laugh. “You always say that.”

“I say it when I want so desperately to help you stop hurting, but I don’t know how.”

“You have, Harry. Mostly.”

“Not enough. But I have a lifetime to do better.” He pressed a kiss to the silvery strands beneath his cheek and murmured, “I’ll take another stab at it when we get back from the Weasleys.”

With a heartfelt groan, Draco let his head drop forward onto his crossed arms. “Bloody hell! The bloody Weasleys!”

“That… erm…” Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. “That reminds me why I came in here.”

Draco jerked upright and sought his eyes in the mirror. “You’ve changed your mind! You want to go alone!”

“Don’t be a twat.”

“Don’t call me that. Not if you want me to believe all that rot about not being too effeminate.”

“Huh?” Harry blinked at him in confusion.

“You do know what a twat is, don’t you, Potter? Even if you’ve never encountered one in the flesh?”

Harry flushed and rolled his eyes at that, a smirk tugging his mouth to one side adorably. Draco considered kissing it—not to distract him from whatever unpleasant business had brought him here, no, not at all—but instead just scowled at him.

“I do know what a twat is, and I have, er, encountered one _in the flesh_. That’s… well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Draco twisted around in his chair to look directly at Harry for the first time, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You what?”

“I’ve been in bed with a naked woman. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it happened, and I need to tell you about…”

“Hmph,” Draco snorted, turning his back on Harry once more, cutting him off with a spurt of annoyance that he knew was totally irrational and hypocritical even as he succumbed to it. “So much for your four years of celibacy.”

“I said I was in bed with a woman. I didn’t say we had sex.”

His eyes flew up to meet Harry’s again. “No?”

“No. Though it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

“When did this happen?”

“After the war, when I was trying to find a way to move past us.”

“Who was it?”

Harry grimaced, his expression saying, _Do you really have to ask?_ “Ginny Weasley.”

Annoyance flared into outright jealousy.

“Of course. The She-Weasel.” He shrugged and dropped his gaze in an attempt to hide his boiling emotions. “I should have known.”

“That’s why I wanted to tell you now. I don’t think she’ll say anything, but I wanted you to have all the facts before…”

“Before I have to face her over the dinner table? Because the meal wouldn’t be hellish enough otherwise? How considerate of you, Potter.”

Harry sighed and combed his fingers through Draco’s hair, his fascination with it now blatant, even to his clueless spouse. The more Harry touched his long, soft, shining hair, the more determined Draco became never to let anyone else touch it, ever, for any reason, and certainly not to cut it. The feel of his husband’s hands in it was too soothing, too erotic, too bloody precious to share.

Draco’s body warmed at this thought, and a flush crept into his cheeks that he hid by ducking his head. He had no intention of letting Harry see how his touch and his nearness affected him—not when the bloody man had just confessed to bedding Ginny Weasley, for fuck’s sake!

“Draco, please, you have to believe me. It wasn’t like I ran straight into Ginny’s arms the minute you were out of the picture.”

“Then what was it like, pray tell?”

Harry gave another weary sigh and sank his fingers into Draco’s hair, as if to anchor himself. “After the war—after you disappeared—I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was isolated and lonely, but I couldn’t muster any interest in other blokes. Ron and Hermione kept trying to fix me up or get me drunk enough to fall into bed with someone, but it never worked. I couldn’t even get as far as a snog in the corner. So then I tried with Ginny, just to see if girls were what I really wanted. She was willing, and Merlin knows she’s beautiful enough! But that went all kinds of wrong. It would have been the single most humiliating moment of my life, if Ginny weren’t the classy lady that she is and one of my oldest friends.”

“What did she do?”

“Told me the bald truth—that I was in love with someone I couldn’t have and no one else was going to do it for me.”

“Did she know who it was?” Harry shook his head. “Did she know it was _male?_ ”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. Being Ginny, she didn’t ask. She just told me to get my arse out of her bed, figure out what in bleeding hell I wanted, and go get it, but not to mess anyone else about in the process.”

“She always wanted you,” Draco said, very quietly, hoping that his raging jealousy didn’t bleed into his voice.

“Yeah, but we both knew it wasn’t going to happen.”

A reluctant smile crept into Draco’s eyes. “You mean that?”

“I do. I’ll always love Ginny, and I’ll always value her brutal honesty, but there is only one person, man or woman, in this entire world that I want, and he’s sitting right here in front of me.” Harry combed Draco’s hair with his fingers for a moment, then bent to press a kiss to his cheek. “Now that you know all my dirty, little secrets, are you ready to face the Weasleys? Or do you need a cup of tea to bolster your courage, first?”

“You and your bloody tea,” Draco sighed. He twisted round in the chair and tilted his head up to gaze at his husband. “How about a shot of Firewhiskey and a kiss, instead?”

“Will you settle for just the kiss?”

“If I must,” Draco groused, as Harry’s lips met his in a long, sweet, loving kiss.

 

*** *** ***

 

They apparated to the edge of the property, letting the distinctive _crack_ announce their arrival, then they started up the long slope toward the Burrow with their hands locked together. A fresh snowfall had turned the tangled shrubberies to fluffy, white humps and made the path slick with ice. Luckily, the two wizards could easily cope with treacherous footing, a simple Sticking charm keeping their feet planted on the ground. Harry moved with a spring in his step and a light in his eyes, his entire body straining toward the haphazard silhouette of the building above them, eager to be with his adoptive family again.

Beside him, Draco clutched a brightly-wrapped package to his chest and retreated, turtle-like, into his winter-white peacoat. It was an unconscious, defensive posture that made Harry smile, even as it squeezed his heart. His dragon looked like a snow prince, so effortlessly beautiful and graceful that he seemed to transform his simple Muggle clothing into regal finery merely by wearing it. Even the tension in his face contributed to his princely air by turning it blank and aloof.

As they drew closer to the house, Draco murmured, for perhaps the hundredth time, “You know she’s seen those pictures.”

The whole fucking wizarding world had seen the pictures of Harry Potter snogging Draco Malfoy in the middle of Diagon Alley by now, but Draco was obsessed with Mrs. Weasley’s reaction.

“It’s good that she’s seen them,” Harry assured him. “It means she’s had time to adjust.”

“Adjust? To her Golden Child debasing himself with Voldemort’s rent-boy?”

“To her Golden Child _marrying_ Voldemort’s rent-boy.”

Draco gave a snort of humorless laughter. “At least you admit that’s what I am.”

“I admit nothing of the sort.”

“Besides, you haven’t told her that we’re married.”

“I’ll tell her tonight.”

“Harry, you bloody idiot, this is going to go _sooo_ tits-up…”

Harry laughed. “You sound more like a Potter every day!”

They reached the front door and Harry took a moment to notice that the usual scattering of Wellies, broomsticks and general detritus had been cleared away, almost as if they were expecting company. Mrs. Weasley must be intent on impressing Harry’s date. Or maybe Ginny’s. Either way, it made him faintly uncomfortable, as if he had been relegated to the role of guest, instead of family.

Before Harry could raise his hand to knock, the door flew open to show Ron’s grinning face.

“Harry! Malfoy! Good to see you! Get in before you freeze your bollocks off.”

The two men crowded past him into the entry way, and he slammed the door on the icy wind that followed.

“Blimey! It’s colder than a Harpy’s tits out there! Gimme your coats and we can warm up with a drink. Everybody’s in the living room.”

“Your parents?” Harry asked, anxiously. His reassuring words to Draco had been meant to calm his skittish husband. He’d never more than half believed them himself, and now that he was faced with the reality of the Weasleys, he was frankly nervous.

“Mum’s cooking. Dad’s serving up Wassail to all and sundry. He’s nicely pissed already—just the way I wanted him. Too bad Mum’s not in the same condition.”

“You want them drunk?” Draco asked.

“Too right. It’ll make it easier to swallow a nasty dose of Malfoy.”

Draco rolled his eyes, and Harry tried to laugh, but he didn’t find it very funny. “Did you tell them about the wedding?”

Ron shook his head. Turning to toss their coats over a handy chair, he said with forced cheerfulness, “You said you wanted to do the honors. I just warned Mum that she had to be polite to your ‘date’.”

“But she’s seen the pictures,” Draco insisted.

“Yeah.” His ears turned redder than his hair. “So she shouldn’t be too surprised to see you on Harry’s arm.”

“Well, let’s get it over with,” Harry sighed, lifting his chin in determination.

“Not like that!” Ron protested. “You look like you’re facing a Dementor’s Kiss! Just stroll on into the kitchen and give her a hug, like you do it every day. Don’t give her a chance to get shirty.” He started for the hallway, heading for the steady hum of noise that announced the Weasley family at play, but suddenly halted and pointed to the package in Draco’s hand. “What’s that?”

“A present for your mother.”

“Huh. Trying to turn her up sweet? Dropping your Malfoy Galleons on posh presents won’t do it, mate.”

Draco flushed and tried to evade Ron’s grabbing hands, holding the gift out of his reach. “The Malfoys haven’t got any Galleons, and I didn’t drop anything on this. We made it.”

“ _Made_ it? As in, with your _very own, lily-white hands?_ ”

“Yes!” Draco retorted, his flush deepening. “With Harry’s help.”

“Wicked!” Using his long arms to advantage, Ron snatched the carefully-wrapped package from Draco’s hand and began tearing off the paper as he loped down the hall. He blasted into the kitchen ahead of his friends, brandishing a decorative tin in one hand and calling, loudly, “Oi, Mum, look who’s here! And they brought _homemade fudge!_ ”

Mrs. Weasley looked up from a countertop groaning under the weight of enough food for a small army, her eyes brightening in welcome.

“Harry, my dear!” she cried. Then her gaze fell on the figure at his side, and all the light drained out of her. Her body went rigid, her mouth fell open, and a flush of outrage mantled her cheeks.

Before she could say anything to the interloper in her house, Ron bounded up to her and thrust the tin of fudge under her nose. “Look at this. Dark chocolate walnut fudge. Malfoy says they made it themselves, but I’m betting on the house-elf.”

“Draco made it,” Harry assured them, trying to keep his smile in place in the face of Mrs. Weasley’s obvious distress. “I just translated the recipe into Useless Pureblood Snob for him.” His hand tightened on Draco’s as he spoke, bolstering his courage.

“And he taste-tested it,” Draco said, “to make sure I didn’t accidentally poison all of you.” His voice sounded unnaturally rough to Harry, betraying his nerves, but it was notably missing its habitual aristocratic drawl. “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Weasley.”

She stared at him, fury rolling off of her in waves, and her throat worked with the effort of speaking politely. “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy.” The name obviously tasted bitter in her mouth.

“Draco,” Harry corrected her, with deceptive gentleness. He wanted to shout _Potter! His name is Potter!_ at her, but that had to wait until he had all the Weasleys together, since he only wanted to fight that battle once.

Molly twitched, her whole body fighting the rein she’d placed on her tongue, then she nodded toward another meandering hallway and the sound of laughter flowing out of it. “Everyone’s enjoying the fire in the living room. Go on in and get yourselves something to drink.”

“Thank you,” Draco said quietly. He turned for the doorway. Harry didn’t follow, and his hold on Draco’s hand stopped him before he’d taken more than a step. Draco turned back to look a question at him.

Harry kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. Weasley. They were hard. “His name is Draco, Mrs. Weasley,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “He came here tonight as a favor to me, because I wanted to see you all but I won’t spend my Christmas Eve without him.”

“It’s all right, Harry,” Draco said quietly.

“It’s not. I won’t ruin our Christmas by forcing you to stay somewhere you aren’t welcome.”

“You are always welcome in this house, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said stiffly.

“But we’re not talking about me.” He paused for a beat, then gave a mental shrug and dropped the dungbomb. “We’re talking about my husband.”

Molly gave him an appalled look, made up as much of disbelief as horror, and choked out, “You’re not…!”

“’Fraid so, Mum,” Ron said cheerfully, even as Harry lifted their clasped hands to show her the ring on Draco’s finger.

She stared at it, dumbfounded, as if she had no idea what she was looking at. Then she turned a look of fury on her son. “What are you saying, Ronald Weasley?! Did you _know about this?!_ ” Harry sensed a certain relief in her outburst that she’d found someone she could attack without breaking all the laws of hospitality and good manners.

“Course I did,” Ron replied with a grin. “I was there, wasn’t I? Stood up for Malfoy… sorry, _Draco_.”

That was the final straw for poor Mrs. Weasley. She took a deep, sobbing breath, filling her lungs to bursting, then emptied a furious torrent of words on her son’s unbowed head. “How dare you?! How _dare you?!_ You’re best friend, practically your _brother_ , gets married and you don’t even bother to tell your parents?! How could you treat us this way?! After everything this family has been through… the war… Fred… Tonks and Remus… the _years_ we’ve spent worrying about Harry and his future… _How could you keep this from us?!!_ ”

Harry and Draco, who had edged back against the wall to wait for storm to blow itself out, exchanged a half-wary, half-laughing look. Harry bent close to murmur in Draco’s ear, “I can’t tell if she’s more angry that we got married or that she wasn’t invited.”

“I’m not sure it matters,” Draco whispered back. “She’s just _angry._ ”

At that moment, a stampede of running feet came down the hallway as the entire Weasley Clan, drawn by Molly’s furious shrieks, burst into the room. The first two through the door, Arthur and Bill, had their wands drawn. They stopped dead at the sight of Molly, red-faced and wild, howling at her son, but were pushed farther into the room by the press of bodies behind them.

“What in Merlin’s name is going on here?!” Arthur demanded.

“ _Your son!_ ” Molly raged, pointing a trembling hand at Ron, “ _Your ungrateful wretch of a son_ didn’t bother to tell us that Harry had _gotten married!_ ”

Arthur blinked in surprise at that and turned to find Harry in the crowd, while a babble of voices rose around him. “What’s that? Harry, my boy…”

“ _He was there!_ ” Molly went on, her voice still rising in volume. “ _He stood up with Harry at the wedding and never thought to tell us about it!_ ” She drew a shuddering breath and delivered the _coup de grâce_ on a howl of pure pain. “ _He let his best friend marry a MALFOY!!_ ”

As that final, damning word echoed into silence, no one dared move. Then, from somewhere at the back of the stunned mob, they all heard a snicker, then Hermione saying, “Oh, dear.”

Ron laughed, breaking the paralysis that gripped them. Bill threw him a quick look, then grinned.

Fleur spoke up in her silvery tones. “’Ow lovely, ’Arry. Theese means a toast, _non?_ To your _mariage?_ ”

“Why, yes, I’m… hmm,” Mr. Weasley dithered, breaking off and clearing his throat when he met his wife’s seething glare.

“A toast it is,” Bill said brightly. “Around the Christmas tree. Where’s the good brandy, Dad? Or do you two need a shot of something stronger?” He threw a smiling look at Harry and Draco, who were still plastered against the wall, looking a bit spell-shocked. His scarred, handsome face was full of nothing but warmth and sympathy. “Let’s all go back to the living room. Give Mum room to work.”

The crowd of Weasleys responded to his bantering tone and began to move back through the doorway, headed for the living room. Ron hung back, waiting for Harry and Draco, and Hermione slipped past the others to join them. Together, the four of them trooped out of the kitchen last, leaving Molly and Arthur staring at each other over the counter full of food.

“It can’t be true, Arthur!” Mrs. Weasley hissed, her voice easily carrying down the hallway to their retreating backs. “It simply can’t!”

“Now, Molly,” Arthur soothed, as Mrs. Weasley heaved a furious sob.

“That our own _son_ would…”

Harry crowded the others along more quickly without looking back. He didn’t want to know what was happening in the kitchen. The whole blow-up, while almost funny in its over-the-top, signature-Weasley way, was intensely embarrassing, and the thought of Molly in such a state over _him_ made him want to crawl into a hole to hide. The only thing that kept his head up and his face calm was the certainty that Draco was every bit as humiliated as he was, and that he was depending on Harry to help him brazen it out.

His hand tightened on Draco’s, and he smiled when he felt the circle of warm platinum around his finger.

 

* * *

 

“To Harry and Draco!”

“To Harry and Draco.”

The murmur ran around the room as everyone, even the stiff and disapproving Molly Weasley, raised their glasses in a salute and sipped at their varied drinks. Draco had lost count of the number of toasts Arthur Weasley had made to the newlyweds, having started well before dinner and kept it up all evening. For reasons best known to himself, Arthur had decided that Harry’s marriage to the pureblood scion of the Houses of Malfoy and Black was the perfect excuse for excessive drinking, so all the Weasleys and their guests were pleasantly pissed by this time. All except Draco, who thought it wise to keep his wits about him.

He sat at one end of a sagging sofa, Harry scrunched in close to his side, with an arm looped around Draco’s shoulders that made him feel warmly protected, even when surrounded by so many potential threats. Not that any of the Weasleys had dared threaten him after Molly’s initial outburst, but he could feel it simmering there, just under the surface—the potential for another explosion.

The dinner had passed off smoothly enough, thanks in large part to the seating arrangements. Granger had used her powerful Extension charm to good effect, expanding the front parlor to hold two massive tables, a dozen people, and mountains of food. Arthur Weasley had been seated at one end of the joined tables, with Harry, Draco, Ron and Hermione to either side. Meanwhile, Molly had occupied the other end, with Percy and his fiancée, Audrey, flanking her. Between these two extremes were George and Charlie Weasley, Ginny and her boyfriend-of-the-moment—a pasty-faced ponce by the name of Clive Prewett who clearly thought that his distant connection with Molly’s family conferred some special status on him—Bill, Fleur and their toddler daughter, Victoire.

The sheer number of bodies interposed between Molly and Draco would have protected him from her wrath, but in any case, she seemed to have suspended hostilities. She was tight-lipped and subdued but unfailingly polite to anyone who addressed her, and she listened with apparent interest to Audrey’s chatter about weddings and babies. Draco, on the other hand, talked quietly with Harry on one side and Bill Weasley on the other, while Hermione kept a protective eye on him from across the table. He ate far more than he wanted to—the food was excellent and more kept appearing—and drank nothing more potent than pumpkin juice. Until Arthur resumed his toasts, that is.

The meal over and the children snoozing happily on a blanket under the Christmas tree, the adults were crammed into the living room for more food, more toasts, Celestina Warbeck on the wireless—Merlin help them all!—and a semblance of friendly conversation. Arthur stood at the hearth, leaning against the mantelpiece and eyeing his extended family with a fond, bleary eye. At his feet, Ron and Hermione were curled up together before the fire as if they’d never left the Gryffindor common room.

Draco envied them. He wondered if he’d ever be comfortable enough in _any_ company to lie so close to his husband and whisper so softly to him. Not bloody likely. But then, he wasn’t much for sprawling on rugs, anyway.

He tucked himself closer into Harry’s side and lifted his brandy snifter to inhale the heady scent of the liquor. Harry smiled down at him, touched the rim of his glass to Draco’s, and murmured, “Mr. Potter.”

“Mr. Potter,” Draco murmured back.

They both took a drink—Harry of Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey, Draco of Mr. Weasley’s best brandy—then leaned in to steal an alcohol-flavored kiss. George spotted them from across the room, gave a snort that was only half-friendly, and threw a Christmas Cracker at them. They broke apart with a shamefaced smile, and Harry fished the cracker out of the folds of his new Weasley sweater.

“Is this one of yours, George?”

“Of course! Only the best for a Weasley Christmas!”

“Huh. No thank you.”

“Oh, faint of heart! Is this what marriage does to the Hero of the Wizarding World? Turns him into a plonker who’s afraid of a little Christmas Cracker?”

“There’s nothing ‘little’ about the things you make,” Harry retorted, but he held out one end of the cracker to Draco, a question in his eyes.

Draco shrugged and grabbed the free end. “No one lives forever.”

Together, they pulled. The cracker came apart with an earsplitting bang, a puff of smoke, and a shower of purple-and-gold stars. Several items tumbled into their laps—a witch’s hat with a stuffed iguana curled around the brim, a harmonica, several brightly-wrapped sweets, and…

“An _owl?!_ ” Harry screeched, ducking as a feathered body swooped over his head, chittering furiously. “How’d you get an _owl_ in that thing?!”

“Well, it’s not a real one, is it?”

The owl made another dive at Harry’s head, and he batted at it in annoyance. “Gerroff!”

“It’s like a chocolate frog,” George informed him. “It has just enough magic to fly around for a minute, make a bit of noise, and…”

“Crap on my head!”

Sure enough, the magical owl, having squeezed out a few smelly, white blobs on Harry’s head, ran out of magic and fell to the floor with soft _whump_. Ron was cheering, Draco was laughing silently but so hard that tears ran from the corners of his eyes, and George was grinning with understandable smugness. Only Harry didn’t find the whole thing uproariously funny.

Ginny picked up the defunct owl and turned it over curiously. It had transformed into a feather duster. “That’s brilliant, George. Really. It takes some strong magic to make it transform like this.”

George chuckled. “No one wants owl corpses lying about after a party.”

“Are they all owls? Or do you have other creatures in some of them?” She reached for the box of crackers he’d set beside his chair, ready to start pulling them apart to see what came out, but her mother stopped her.

“One is enough! I don’t need a house full of feather dusters, anymore than of owl corpses!”

“You could feed the corpses to the ferret,” Draco just barely heard Clive the Ponce mutter, but everyone ignored him and Draco pretended not to hear.

“There are all kinds of things in there,” George assured her, “and they all transform into useful household items. The tortoise becomes a teapot…”

“First Year Transfiguration, coming back to haunt us,” Draco murmured to Harry.

“…and the porcupine becomes a bundle of quills.”

“You should make a Niffler that turns into slippers!” Harry exclaimed. “Cute ones, with Niffler faces and ears and long tails!” Draco gave him a narrow, threatening look, but Harry just smiled back at him, brows lifted.

“Ooh, I remember those!” Ginny cried happily. “I always wanted a pair, but we couldn’t afford them, so Mum knit me some. They were maroon, for some reason.”

Molly gave her a severe look. “They were maroon, because that’s the yarn I had on hand.”

“Left over from my Christmas jumper,” Ron interjected, his tone lugubrious.

“Draco had a pair of Niffler slippers,” Harry informed them with an air of entirely false innocence.

Draco could tell at once that Harry was trying to get his goat. Clearly, he had not forgiven his husband for laughing himself to tears over the owl shite in his hair. Draco narrowed his eyes at Harry and got a bland, guileless look in return.

“I’ll bet he did,” Clive the Ponce drawled, doing his best pureblood snob imitation. “Knowing Lucius, they were probably made from real Nifflers.”

Beside him, Ginny let out a snort, but whether of laughter or disgust, Draco couldn’t say.

Clive was a cheap Malfoy copy, with dirty-blond hair, washed-out blue eyes and a sharp nose that turned up at the end, giving him a perpetually snotty air. Draco wondered what had possessed Ginny to bring him here, considering how her parents felt about pureblood arrogance. Did she think they’d be impressed by how he held a brandy snifter? He was cradling one now, swirling it in an affected manner, and shooting gloating looks over its rim at Draco.

Imbecile. Even he, Draco, an actual Malfoy and the genuine article when it came to pureblood snobs, knew better than to put on airs for the Weasleys.

The Prewetts were one of the Sacred Twenty-eight families, but like most old wizarding families, they had many branches of varying influence, blood-purity and status. Draco had no idea where Clive the Ponce fell on that family tree and frankly didn’t give a fuck, but from the man’s behavior, he suspected that it was far out on some insignificant twig. Hence the need to assert his dominance over the Fallen Malfoy. He’d been at it all evening, with snide references to Draco’s legal troubles, loss of reputation and lack of fortune. Now he was starting in on his father, thinking to wound Draco by insulting Lucius.

Draco had largely ignored him, but Harry was out of patience.

“So you and _Lucius_ were on a first name basis, were you?” he retorted, giving Clive a challenging look. “Where did you meet? At a Death Eater rally? Or were you down in the kitchens with the house-elves?”

The other man’s pale skin flushed an unattractive red, but before he could say anything more, Granger chimed in, her voice slightly too loud.

“Are you missing your Niffler slippers, Draco? Is that why Harry wants them to pop out of a cracker?”

Draco answered easily, no hint of discomfort in his voice, “Not at all. Harry’s the one who’s enamored of bunny slippers, whatever those may be.”

“ _Bunny slippers!_ ” half of the gathered Weasleys chorused in delight. Then Ron added, “What the fuck are _bunny slippers?_ ” earning him a swat from his mum and a quelling stare from his dad.

“Well, they aren’t made out of real bunnies, I can tell you that,” Granger said, rolling her eyes and sparking another round of laughter in the room.

Draco felt his muscles unclench as Clive’s petty attack was forgotten. He didn’t honestly care what the nasty, little prick had to say about him. Clive wasn’t even clever enough to come up with a potent insult. The problem was Harry.

His husband was on full alert, hackles raised, ready to jump to Draco’s defense at the slightest provocation. And while Draco found his bristling protectiveness intensely attractive—almost too attractive—he hated to see Harry so worked up. He was supposed to be enjoying this time with his family, not poised to pounce at the first hint of hostility toward Draco.

He took another sip of brandy and let the renewed conversation swirl around him. Harry’s warmth beside him was distracting. Arousing. Draco wanted to stroke his hand up Harry’s thigh, turn his face into his neck, nibble up to his jaw and whisper in his ear. Whisper assurances that it would be all right, that he could have both Draco and the Weasleys, that Draco would do nothing to drive them away, that Harry didn’t have to protect him at the expense of his family but that Draco loved him for his willingness to do just that.

His cock stirred. He lowered his hands to his lap to hide it, still clasping the brandy snifter. He cut a glance up at his husband from beneath his lashes and saw those fabulous green eyes fixed on him. They glowed with that special light he saved just for Draco.

“All right, Harry?” he murmured, his lips curving up in a private smile.

“Brilliant,” Harry replied in the same low tone.

Draco almost gasped aloud as Harry’s voice, his smile, his glowing look all went straight to his groin. Instead, he bit his lip and turned his attention to the others in the room, hoping to cool off a bit before he totally humiliated himself in front of the Weasleys.

Percy was haranguing Charlie about some new Ministry regulation to do with Class A Non-Tradeable Goods. Bill was examining one of George’s Christmas crackers, trying to take it apart without triggering the magic that made it explode. Molly was lying back in her chair, eyes closed, her lips moving along with Celestina Warbeck. Granger was trying to engage Audrey in conversation, but it was hard going, the other woman having about a quarter of Hermione’s brain cells and little to say for herself. Fleur came over to perch on the couch next to Harry and began to chatter about her sister Gabrielle in her fluid, musical, Veela-enriched voice that even a man as bent as Harry couldn’t resist.

That left Draco to sit in comfortable silence until he caught the entirely unwelcome words ‘Phineas Boggs’ in amongst the idle chatter. His mind snapped into tight focus in the same instant that Harry stiffened at his side and broke off what he was saying to Fleur.

“What was that about Boggs?” Harry demanded.

Arthur glanced over at him apologetically. “Kingsley was just filling me in on the investigation. I understand it’s moved into a new phase.”

“Gringotts received the Ministry’s request for access to his financial records yesterday,” Bill said from his place on the floor beside George’s chair, “but that’s only the first sortie in a long, ugly battle. It’ll be months before there’s any progress, and Shacklebolt himself will have to get involved before the goblins hand so much as a scrap of parchment over to the Ministry.”

“Why do they have to be so difficult?” Ginny asked.

Bill threw her a wry smile. “Because they’re goblins.”

“But if the man was in business with the Death Eaters…”

“It’ll come out eventually. Among other things, this is their way of testing how determined the Ministry is, how serious the charges are, and how far the DMLE is willing to go to prove them.”

“They’ll prove them,” Harry said grimly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Why so anxious to see Boggs in Azkaban, Potter?” Clive asked.

Harry gave him a hard, warning look. “Because the man’s a lying snake and a Voldemort supporter.”

“Ah.” Clive elaborately turned away, swirling his brandy and speaking to a spot on the wall above Molly’s shoulder. “That explains it.”

“What’s that mean, Prewett?” Ron growled.

“Leave it, Ron,” Harry said tightly, but the Weasel seemed to have taken an intense dislike to the Ponce and was in no mood to listen.

“No. I’ve been listening to this pillock all night—making snide remarks and picking at Malfoy—now he’s starting in on you. I want to know what he’s on about, what he thinks he knows that we don’t, or I want him to shut the fuck up!”

“Ronald!” Molly snapped. “Mr. Prewett is a guest in our home!”

“Yeah? So are Harry and Draco.” Molly evidently had nothing to say to this, leaving Ron free to continue unchallenged. “So what is it, Prewett? What’s got your bollocks in a clamp?”

“ _Ronald!_ ”

“I was just wondering what Potter’s interest was in Boggs, or in getting him out of Malfoy Manor, more precisely.”

“I have no interest in the Manor,” Harry retorted.

“No?” Clive’s malicious gaze cut over to Draco for a moment, then back to Harry. “Not even as a present for your… spouse?” An ugly smirk twisted his lips. “Payment in Kind, I believe they call it. Quid pro quo. Or do you only work for cash, Malfoy?”

A stunned, horrified silence met this remark, broken by a cough from Percy that might have been a laugh and a disgusted sound from Ginny.

“That’s enough, Clive,” she snapped.

“I was just asking. Maybe next Christmas you can all celebrate in style at the Manor. No more Extension charms…”

Draco couldn’t take it. He knew he shouldn’t react, shouldn’t let them see that the Ponce had gotten to him, but he had to get out of that room before he did something he couldn’t take back. Leaning close to Harry, he murmured, “Where’s the loo?”

The look Harry turned on him was bleak with anger and shadowed with worry. “Through the kitchen and up the stairs to the first floor. Third door on the left. Draco…”

Draco gave his thigh a squeeze to quiet him, then lurched to his feet and strode to the door. He had to step over Ginny and Clive to reach it, but he did not waste a glance on them. He even managed to keep the flush of fury and humiliation off his cheeks until he was a few steps down the hallway toward the kitchen and the sudden storm of voices behind him was beginning to blur.

He crossed the empty kitchen in a few strides, then took the stairs two at a time. The loo, when he found it, was tiny and old-fashioned—just a toilet operated by a pull-chain from a box on the wall above, a round sink on a pedestal, and an ancient, spotted mirror hanging over it—but it had a lock on the door and that was all he needed. He slammed the door, threw the lock, and added a quick spell for good measure. Sinking down on the closed lid of the toilet, he buried his face in his hands and let his hair fall around him like a veil. With the triple barriers of hands, hair and door between him and the world, he finally let the wave of emotion take him.

It hurt. _Merlin’s fucking balls_ , how it hurt! He wanted to cry, to tear his hair, to scream his fury at the walls and shatter the mirror before he caught his reflection in it. He wanted to run. Hide. Crawl into Harry’s lap and bury his face in his neck so he never had to look at this world that hated him again. He wanted…

He wanted Harry.

That was all.

He wanted Harry at any cost. And Harry wanted the Weasleys.

Draco lifted his head, looked around the tiny space as if he didn’t recognize it. His mind went back to the sagging couch and Harry’s arm around him, Harry’s eyes glowing as they touched his face. He had known it then—that Harry would give up even the Weasleys for him, but that he could never force that choice on him. He’d made a promise to himself that he was bound to keep.

Harry could have both Draco and the Weasleys. He would never have to choose.

But it was hard, _so fucking hard,_ to face them after Clive’s ugly words, knowing that some of them—Molly and Percy, at least, maybe George, maybe the She-Weasel who had always wanted his Harry—believed them. He was a coward and a weakling, no Gryffindor, and he didn’t have the bollocks to do it.

Did he?

Stiffly, reluctantly, he rose to his feet and went to the sink. A twist of his hand brought cold water gushing from the tap. He bent over the bowl and splashed it on his face, trying to cool the flush on his cheeks and clear his head. Then he straightened up to face the mirror.

 _Pull yourself together, you twat,_ he ordered himself sternly. _Be a Gryffindor. Be a Potter. Show them you’re not afraid._

Straightening his shoulders, he struck a defiant pose, head tilted arrogantly and mouth set in a disdainful curve.

That was it. More Malfoy than Potter, but good enough to fool a pack of Weasels.

Turning for the door, he banished the locking spell and flipped the latch. The hallway was empty, but he held his pose anyway, just for practice, and strode down it toward the stairs. He was halfway down them when he heard voice filtering up from the kitchen and slowed his steps.

Molly and Ginny, arguing from the sound of it. One of them was slamming metal pots about, drowning out half their words with the racket, but he caught enough. More than enough.

“I’ve warned you how many times?” That was Molly. “And now look what you’ve done!”

“Me?” Ginny, almost laughing but still sounding disgusted. “You think I had anything to do with this?”

“You toyed with that poor boy for years! You _drove him to this!_ ”

“I didn’t do anything to him! Honestly, Mum! I’ve hardly spoken to him since we broke up—if you could even call it that when we were barely _together!_ ”

Draco reached the bottom step and paused, drawing on his non-existent courage again before he made his presence known. He was standing in full view, but neither woman had the attention to spare for him. They were planted toe-to-toe, the pans forgotten, shouting at each other in true Weasley style.

“You broke his heart!” Molly railed. “And don’t tell me again how it was a mutual decision, because I’m not blind or stupid! I see how you behave, Ginevra, and I say it’s no wonder that a good, kind, honest boy like Harry wouldn’t tolerate it!”

“Oh, for crying…”

“You pushed him into that creature’s arms! And now, thanks to you, if we ever want to see Harry again, we’ll have to sit down to Christmas dinner with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy!”

Draco took the last step down, bringing himself abruptly into the room and under the eyes of the two women. They both turned to gape at him in horrified surprise.

“How fortunate for you that my family home is in the hands of a war profiteer, my mother is in exile and my father is dead,” he said coldly. “So you won’t be troubled with any of us again.”

With that, he turned on his heel and started back up the way he had come.

“Malf— urgh! _Draco! Wait!_ ” Ginny called, but Draco did not wait.

He did not wait to see the flush of chagrin mantle Mrs. Weasley’s cheeks or the tears start in her eyes. He did not wait to hear Ginny’s hissed exchange with her mother.

“That was brilliant, Mum! Just _brilliant!_ ”

“Oh, my! I didn’t think…”

“No, you didn’t. You just _attacked_ the one person in this world that Harry loves _more than us!_ ”

He bounded up the stairs, headed for the one room he knew had a working lock on the door because he’d just used it. The first floor loo. He was through the door, ready to slam it shut, when Ginny Weasley appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Draco! Please wait!”

He hesitated for a split second—a fatal tactical error when dealing with the best Chaser in the League—and Ginny materialized in front of him. Putting a hand flat on the door, she shoved it all the way open and crowded into the tiny room with him.

“I’m sorry,” she said bluntly. “Honestly. My mum isn’t usually so…”

“Offensive?” Draco offered nastily, as he slouched back against the sink, arms crossed, struggling for a look of aloof disdain.

To his surprise, Ginny accepted the word with a nod. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think she actually hates you. I think she’s just trying to adjust to the reality of losing Harry as a son-in-law.”

“What gave it away? The ring on his finger, or the pureblood ponce in your bed?”

“Clive in my bed? He wishes,” she said with a wicked grin that Draco could not resist. His own face relaxed and his posture uncoiled slightly. “But you do have a point. There have been any number of men in my bed since Harry and I had our very short—and very unsuccessful—dalliance. That’s part of the problem. Mum sees all the subsequent men as me acting out to get Harry’s attention.”

“And they’re not?”

“Merlin, no!” She cocked her head and eyed him in a way that reminded him frighteningly of Granger. “You weren’t thinking that I want Harry back, were you?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, but with no coldness or snark in it. “I haven’t seen or spoken to you since the war, so I have no idea what you want. I only know what Harry wants.”

“And that’s you,” she said decisively.

Draco nodded hesitantly.

“It’s always been you, hasn’t it? The one he’s been waiting for?” A new thought occurred to Ginny and her eyes widened. “Even at Hogwarts! You were his secret lover, the one we never saw! You two were sneaking around under our very noses for _years!_ ”

“It wasn’t safe to tell anyone,” Draco said quietly.

“No, I can see why it wouldn’t be. Merlin’s tits! Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, the romance of the century, shagging in secret while the world went up in flames around them!” Her grin flashed again. “Maybe I’ll write an exposé and make myself a fortune!”

“Please don’t,” Draco said, wincing.

She gave him a frank, appraising look, then chuckled. “Don’t worry, Malfoy—sorry, Draco—I was only teasing. I hate the press attention as much as you do.”

“I doubt that, considering that they lionize you for your Quidditch skills, whereas I’m the town prostitute.”

“Not anymore.”

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “No? Just because I don’t do it for money doesn’t mean I don’t get paid in other ways—as your friend Clive was so eager to point out.”

Ginny had the grace to blush at that. “He really is a prick, isn’t he?”

Draco eyed her thoughtfully, a smile tugging at his lips. “Why did you bring him here?”

She shrugged. “Mostly to irritate Mum.”

“So, she wasn’t wrong about you acting out.”

That irresistible grin spread across her face again. “No, just about the object of the exercise.”

“You’re a wicked woman, Ginny Weasley.”

The grin widened. “I am, on and off the pitch. It’s good that you realize this, now that you’re part of the family.”

Draco’s own smile faded. He looked away from her, suddenly reminded that this beautiful, talented, charming force of nature was the destined mate of his Harry, at least in the minds of his family. “I don’t think I am.”

“Rubbish. Most of us are glad to have you here—glad to see Harry happy, at any rate—and the rest will come around.”

“Your mother isn’t coming around in my lifetime.”

“I give it a week. Maybe less. Now that she’s got the idea firmly planted in her head that Harry and I aren’t going to happen, and that you aren’t going away, she’ll have you adopted in no time. It helps that she made such an arse of herself tonight. She already feels guilty about how she treated you, and that business about your parents nearly had her in tears…”

“This is not helping!”

“Oh, trust me, it is. She is the most loving, forgiving woman on the planet, ready to mother every lost or lonely creature who crosses her path. Only, look at Harry! She was gone on him the first time she saw that skinny, little urchin wandering around Kings Cross, looking scared. It was never about him being Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. It was about him needing a mother.”

“I do not need a mother.”

Her eyes twinkled at his sour tone. “Of course you do, you prat. Just look at you! Underfed, over-stressed, jumping at loud noises! If there was ever a man who needed a warm hug and a good meal, it’s you!”

“You really are completely outrageous, you know that?”

“Completely,” she agreed, with another beguiling grin. “In all fairness to Mum, it’s my fault that she behaved the way she did. I’ve been poking at her for years, flaunting my boyfriends in her face—especially the idiot ones like Clive—keeping her wound up over Harry. I’m sorry about that, now. I truly am. If I’d known that Harry was married, and especially if I’d known it was to _you_ , I’d never have brought a snobbish little twat like Clive to dinner. I realize it looks like I was taunting you with that sorry little pureblood-pretender, but I never meant it that way.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and a hint of suspicion crept into his voice. “Not even the tiniest bit? You must have guessed who Harry was bringing tonight after seeing those pictures in the _Prophet_ , even if you didn’t know that we were married.”

“I don’t read the _Prophet_. And while I heard about the pictures from Mum and George, I never dreamed that Harry would have the bollocks to march you into the lions’ den, much less that you would agree to do it.”

“I almost didn’t,” Draco admitted with a shamefaced grin.

“I’m glad you did.”

He arched a brow at that. “Really? Why?”

“Because you’re Harry’s husband and part of the family. And because you’re the one. I’ve been wondering who it was ever since… uhmm…”

“You don’t have to be coy about it. Harry told me what happened.”

A wash of color mounted in her cheeks, even as she tried to hide her embarrassment with a smirk. “Not my finest hour.”

“According to Harry, it was. He’s grateful to you.” Draco swallowed painfully and added, “He loves you.”

“I’ll bet that sticks in your craw.”

He mustered a smile at that and murmured, “Only a little. And only because I’m a jealous prat.”

To Draco’s infinite surprise, she reached out to clasp his arm. Her fingers were warm and reassuring, offering a kind of friendly touch that he had almost forgotten existed. “Any time you get that ugly, squirmy, jealous feeling, just remember that you’re the one. The _only_ one. And I’m living proof of that. Yeah?”

Draco smiled—a soft, open, utterly natural smile such as he had not managed all night—and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Draco!”

They both heard the call from the stairway, recognized Harry’s voice, and stepped awkwardly apart. Almost as if they’d been engaged in some clandestine behavior. Maybe it was the lingering memory of Harry’s history with Ginny hanging in the air between them, or maybe it was simply that neither of them were naturally open or demonstrative people, and they were leery of being caught with their feelings exposed.

Ginny stuck her head around the doorjamb. “In here!”

Footsteps pounded in the hallway, then Harry appeared in the doorway, looking flushed and a bit worried. “Hey, Dragon. Everything okay?”

Draco nodded and pushed himself off the sink. Before he could move, Ginny stepped up to Harry, planted a kiss on his cheek, then brushed past him on her way out.

“I’d better get back before Clive makes a total arse of himself.”

“Too late,” Harry informed her wryly. “He’s already lecturing your dad on all the ways that the Ministry has bungled its dealings with pureblood families since the war.”

“Bloody hell,” she groaned, “I’d better go rescue the insufferable twat. Congratulations, Harry. Draco. I’m very happy for you. Honestly. And I suggest you don’t rush back to the living room, unless you want to witness Clive’s utter humiliation.”

“Can’t say I wouldn’t enjoy that,” Harry mused.

Ginny laughed, waved an airy farewell, and bounded down the stairs, leaving Harry and Draco alone.

“She’s cheerful,” Harry remarked, as he eyed his husband warily, his concern about what had passed between Ginny and Draco plain in his face.

“Isn’t she always?” Draco asked.

“I’d expected… I don’t know… some verbal fireworks? A few curses?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Ginny and I are rational adults.”

“ _Ginny._ Not the She-Weasel?”

Harry stepped into the tiny room and up close to his husband. Draco moved into his arms without hesitation, slipping his own around Harry’s waist, tilting his head back to meet his simmering green eyes. Their bodies settled instantly and perfectly together.

“She’s not what I expected,” Draco murmured.

“That sounds like the Ginny I know.” Harry quirked a smile at him. “I gather you like her.”

“I do.” Draco matched his smile and angled his head, inviting a kiss in every way he could without asking outright. He saw understanding in Harry’s eyes, and a knot of pleasure formed in the pit of his stomach. “I think it would be impossible not to.”

“She didn’t give you a hard time?” Harry asked, even as he bent to bring his mouth nearly to Draco’s.

Draco just shook his head, parting his lips.

Harry’s kiss robbed him of breath and made his blood sing. It was gentle, caressing rather than demanding, open-mouthed but restrained, with only the lightest stroke of Harry’s tongue along his lip. But it sent Draco’s mind spinning and turned his limbs to water. When Harry pulled back, he staggered, falling against the sink, and gave a whimper of protest.

Harry gathered him closer in his arms and pressed a kiss to his jaw, then his throat, working his way down as Draco let his head fall back in abandon.

“Harry,” he whispered.

“Mm,” Harry breathed against his neck.

“Harry, do we have to stay here?”

“Why?” He lifted his head and fixed gleaming eyes on Draco. “Afraid to brave the Ginger Hoard again?”

“No.” Draco slid his hands behind Harry’s neck and sank his fingers into his thick hair. “I want to go home. To our bed.”

Harry’s eyes widened in understanding, then narrowed in concern. There was no way that he could miss the raging erection pressed to his thigh, but they had both become masters at ignoring the demands of their bodies over the past weeks. Draco was nearly always hard when Harry held him, and Harry only had to look at Draco to jump to full attention. But they had done no more than snog a bit and cuddle in bed at night, fully clothed.

So why this sudden change?

Draco could see the question in Harry’s eyes, even as he pulled himself together and edged out of Draco’s arms. It wasn’t a rejection, just caution, Draco knew. Breathing space so they could think.

But Draco didn’t want to think. He wanted to fuck. He wanted to spread himself out on their big bed, open himself to Harry, take him in, take everything he had to give, and watch in wonder as Harry came apart inside him. He still remembered what that looked like—the most beautiful sight he’d ever known—and he was aching for it now.

His offer must seem sudden to Harry. Desperate, even. A reaction rather than a choice. But that was only because Harry hadn’t felt the heat and longing growing in him all night, as he watched his husband with his family and understood what Harry was risking to be with him. He hadn’t heard Ginny’s words or felt the walls inside Draco crumble when he accepted the truth of them. He didn’t know— _couldn’t_ know—how it felt to finally believe that this is where he belonged.

He was Draco Potter. He was no longer a Malfoy or Voldemort’s bond-slave or a Knockturn Alley whore, he was Draco Potter.

He was Draco Potter, and he wanted his husband so much that his entire body hurt with it.

“What’s brought this on, Dragon?” Harry asked, frowning. “Are you pissed?”

“No.”

“Seriously? What about all those toasts?”

“I barely took a sip each time. I knew I needed to keep my wits about me, with all those Weasleys just waiting to pounce.”

“This is about the Weasleys, then? Did Ginny say something to you?”

“Yes.” Harry stiffened, scowled, but Draco smiled serenely up at him. “She said I was the one.”

“The one…”

“The one you always wanted.” He tightened his arms around Harry, drawing the taller man against him so that his weight pressed Draco into the cold porcelain of the sink. “Even when you were in her bed.”

“I’ve told you that.”

“Maybe I needed to hear it from her.”

Harry gazed down into his upturned face and groaned, down low in his chest so that Draco felt the rumble of it in his own. “Bloody fucking hell. You’re sure you’re not pissed?”

“What if I am?”

“I won’t take advantage of you when you’re too drunk to know what you’re doing.”

“I’m not.” Draco stretched up to kiss him, landing on his jaw and biting it gently before working his way up to his lips. “But if you don’t believe me, ask Kreacher for a potion to clear my head.”

“I may do that.”

“Whatever it takes, Harry.” He pulled Harry’s head down and kissed him roughly, with teeth and tongues and blatant demand. “I want you. I want my husband tonight. And I don’t want to wait.”

 _“Bloody fucking hell_ ,” Harry said again, reverently, then he pulled his wand from his pocket.

He said nothing, just jabbed the wand over his shoulder at the open door and sent a stream of gleaming silver from its tip. The light coalesced into the shape of a stag—proud and graceful and thrumming with power—that pranced lightly on the worn carpet and turned its antler-crowned head in Harry’s direction.

“Find Arthur Weasley. Say, ‘Draco isn’t feeling well, so I’m taking him home. Thank you for your hospitality and Happy Christmas’.”

He sent the Patronus on its way with a wave of his hand, then he gathered Draco close in his arms again and kissed him fiercely. They were still kissing, no distance between their locked bodies and hungry lips, when Harry turned on the spot and carried Draco with him. Both men disappeared with a _crack_.

 

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the last chapter, but it got to be so long that I had to postpone Harry and Draco's real reunion and add another chapter. So next time... SMUT (and fluff)!


	15. Happy Christmas, Mr. Potter (REVISED)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. I don't know if the Archive will send an update notice for a revised chapter, so I don't know if any of my readers will find this, but I hope so.
> 
> When I originally wrote this chapter, I tried to do something very specific with it, but I was not successful. As a result, the chapter was weak, choppy and entirely unsatisfying (to me, at least). I never liked it, and after reading it again recently, I decided that it had to go.
> 
> I've rewritten the chapter with an eye to maintaining the mood of the story as a whole and handling the characters better. It's still essentially smut, but hopefully it's better smut. And hopefully the Harry and Draco we've come to know are still visible in it. (Some of the bits are the same, but only the best bits, IMO.)
> 
> I hope you like it and I hope it gives you a more satisfying end to the story. Thank you for reading!

****They apparated onto the rug before the sitting room fire, still wrapped around each other and so lost in their kiss that it was some minutes before Draco looked up to notice where they stood. He glanced around the room, taking it in, and felt a twinge of uncertainty.

Why had Harry brought them here? He was certainly capable of apparating directly into their bedroom—as easily as anywhere else in the cottage—so why had he chosen this room? Had Draco not made himself clear? Had he said something wrong, made Harry think he was joking or too pissed to make a rational choice? Or worse…

Did Harry not want him?

His stomach lurched a the thought, but he scrambled to cover it with bravado. The last thing he could afford now was to appear weak or frightened in front of Harry. That would push him straight into Saint Potter mode and ruin any chance Draco stood of getting what he wanted.

Shooting Harry a provocative look from beneath his lashes, he smirked and murmured, “Planning to fuck me under the Christmas tree, Potter?”

Harry grimaced at that, turning the doubt in Draco’s guts to dread. “This isn’t about fucking, Draco,” he said, reproach plain in his voice.

Draco stiffened. “You don’t want to fuck me?”

“Don’t be daft.”

He leaned in to capture Draco’s lips again, but Draco twitched his head away.

“If you don’t want me…”

“You know I do,” Harry chided, “but I’m not one of your customers. I’m your husband. And this has to be about more than putting my prick in you.”

“Like what?”

He gave Draco a look that simultaneously infuriated him and turned his bones to water. Then he called loudly, “Kreacher!”

There came an instantaneous _crack_ and Draco heard the ancient elf croak from behind him, “Master called?”

“Of course he bloody called,” Draco muttered, refusing to look at the creature or pull himself out of his husband’s arms, no matter how awkward it felt to be caught there by one of his old family servants. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Does Master need something?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, even as his hand petted Draco’s hair in silent apology. “I need a potion to sober us up. Clear our heads. Do we have anything like that in the house?”

“Kreacher does not know. Master has never asked for such a thing before.”

“Well, have a look. If we don’t…” Harry broke off and chewed on his lower lip, obviously trying and failing to come up with a source for potions at this hour of the night on Christmas Eve. Kreacher came to his rescue.

“If Master does not have the potions, Kreacher can find them at Hogwarts. The Fat One keeps them in his cupboard.”

“That’s brilliant. Thank you. But ask Professor Slughorn before you take anything from his stores,” Harry added sternly.

“Yes, Master.”

Kreacher was gone in an instant, leaving the two wizards alone. Harry moved over to the settee and sat down, bringing Draco with him. As he landed on the cushions, Draco crossed his arms tightly over his chest and huddled in on himself, radiating annoyance. He did not soften, even when Harry pulled him in tight to his side and nuzzled at his jaw. Warm, wet lips slid down his neck, sending a shiver over his skin and dragging a whimper from him.

“Are you really afraid that I only want you because I’m pissed?” he asked, as that maddening mouth began sucking bruises into his throat.

“No,” Harry breathed, “I know you want me.”

“Then why…?” he began, only to have Harry cut him off by nipping lightly at his jaw.

“I know you want me, Dragon, but I’m afraid you’re only willing to act on it because you’re pissed.”

“Then you’re an imbecile.”

Draco fixed Harry with a burning glare, even as he swung one leg over his thighs and settled astride his lap.

“You think I’m some kind of fragile flower that has to be seduced with wine and soft music and rose petals on my pillow,” he growled, his eyes flashing, his body pressed hard to Harry’s, and his hips rolling to rub his swollen cock against the one reaching for him so blatantly. “But I’m not fragile, Potter. I never was!”

“Maybe not. Not your body, anyway.”

Harry stroked a hand over his hair, following it down to his shoulder and back. His touch was light, loving, caressing, and it made Draco want to curl against him in a helpless, quivering ball. Instead, he buried his face in Potter’s neck and clenched his eyes shut against his desperate longing.

“But your mind and your heart,” Harry went on softly, “are a different matter. They always needed more care than your body. More gentleness. And now… now they need so much…”

The hand in his hair lifted Draco’s head, guided it, brought his lips to Harry’s in a searing kiss that he felt down to his curling toes. Draco sank into it, opening his mouth and humming his approval when Harry’s tongue thrust between his lips. He began to rock his hips, rutting his swollen cock against the magnificent hardness in Harry’s trousers and letting the heat of their friction course through him.

He was teetering on the brink of climax, heat pooling in his guts and trembling in his thighs, when the _crack_ of Kreacher’s reappearance jerked him upright, away from Harry’s lips.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he gasped. Then he crumpled forward again to hide his flushed face, stinging eyes and raging hard-on against Harry’s body.

Harry tightened both arms around him possessively and spoke over his shoulder to the elf. “Any luck, Kreacher?”

“Kreacher has the potions for Master,” the house-elf croaked.

“Thank you. Put them on the table.”

Still Draco refused to lift his head. He heard the elf’s shuffling steps and the clunk of glass striking the wooden table.

“Draco and I will want privacy for the rest of the night,” Harry went on, his words going straight to Draco’s already enflamed cock.

Oh, yes. They most certainly would. And if Kreacher interrupted them again, he’d find his head mounted on the wall of Grimmauld Place along with his ancestors.

“You can stay at Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place, maybe invite some of your friends to join you. Take some wine from the cellars and have a little party. Whatever you’d like to do, as long as you don’t just hide in a cupboard somewhere.”

“Master will let Kreacher spend the night in his Family’s home?” The disbelief and hope were plain in Kreacher’s voice. “With his former mistress?”

“Of course. You know you’re always free to go there, and this is Christmas. You should enjoy yourself. Even if that means talking to some foul-mouthed old portrait,” Harry added dryly.

“Kreacher is most grateful. He apologizes for all the bad things he has ever said about his master and will punish himself after he finishes preparing breakfast tomorrow…”

“No,” Harry cut in hastily, “you won’t. And we don’t need you to make breakfast for us either, so don’t hurry back. In fact, you don’t have to come back at all, unless you really want to. Draco doesn’t need nursing anymore, and I don’t need a servant to take care of this little cottage. You’re a free elf, yeah? You can go where you like.”

“Master Harry is playing a cruel joke on Kreacher.” The elf’s voice was harsh with reproach when he croaked, “He knows that Kreacher will never desert Master Harry or his most noble husband. He knows that Kreacher will die before he fails in his duty to his Family.”

“Fine. I was only joking,” Harry said with a sigh. “But don’t come back too early. We’ll make our own breakfast.”

Draco waited until he heard the distinctive _crack_ of Kreacher disapparating, then he lifted his head to gaze down at Harry. He could still feel the traces of a blush in his cheeks, but whether it was from embarrassment or the lingering heat of their kisses, he couldn’t say.

“Where’s the potion?”

Harry held out a hand. Two crystal flasks flew into it. With another silent burst of magic, he unsealed the corks and sent them flying off into the room for Abraxas to find. Then he offered one to Draco.

“Cheers, love.”

Draco took it, tilted it to his lips, and downed the contents in one swallow.

“ _Bloody hell!_ ” he wheezed, as Pepper-Up potion seared down his throat and into his protesting stomach. It hit him harder than a shot of Firewhiskey, burning away the gentle numbness of the brandy in his blood and clearing the fog from his brain. Smoke poured out of his ears. His eyes filled with water.

Harry was watching him speculatively, and when he caught Draco’s bleared gaze, he asked, “You okay?”

Draco nodded, still wheezing and fighting tears. “It’s Pepper-Up. He might have warned us, the evil little git.”

Harry just grinned and knocked back his own potion.

“ _Fuck me sideways!_ ”

His face turned a brilliant red and smoke gushed from his ears, tangling in his wild mop of hair.

“I warned you,” Draco said with a smirk.

“At least it worked. You’re sober, yeah?”

“As an undertaker.”

“Good.” Harry vanished both of the flasks and slipped his arms around Draco once more. “Then let me ask you again…”

“Don’t, Harry,” Draco cut in. “Don’t. Just take me to our bed and f—”

Harry silenced him with a firm kiss. Then, arms wrapped tight around his husband’s body, he pulled them both into the crushing darkness.

 

They were in the bedroom, sprawled together on the huge, antique, tester bed. Harry was slowly undressing him, peeling away fabric so he could paint hot, wet kisses across his skin. He was sobbing—he couldn’t help himself—and trying to hide it behind the arm he’d flung over his face. And Harry, honorable sodding Gryffindor that he was, kept stopping to lift his head and whisper reassurances to him. But all Draco wanted, all he had _ever_ wanted, all he had ached and wept and prayed for since that terrible night, five years ago, when Snape had dragged him down off the Astronomy Tower and away from everything he loved, was to feel Harry Potter inside him again.

It was all he needed. His lifeline. His anchor to the world.

Harry, back where he belonged.

 _Please, Merlin, let it happen_ , he silently begged. _Please, please, please…!_

“Don’t cry, Dragon,” Harry whispered urgently, his hand now petting Draco’s hair instead of stroking his cock or working to open him, as it should be. “I swear I won’t hurt you! I’ll stop right now, if you…”

“You stop now, and I will f-fucking _kill you!_ ” Draco sobbed.

Harry sucked in his breath, then abruptly rolled between Draco’s thighs and reared up over him. Draco whimpered, clutched at the front of the shirt Harry still wore, spread his thighs ’til they burned, begging with every line of his body. Then, at last, Harry drove into him.

The familiar pain burned through him, followed in the next breath by a spike of agonizing pleasure, and he cried out in welcome. Hands fastened in his hair, pinning his head to the mattress. The chest crushing down on his heaved as Harry drew in a shuddering breath. Lips dragged across his face, finding his mouth, then the corner of his eye. Draco’s lashes fluttered up, just as Harry lifted his head to gaze down at him. Their eyes met, and Draco’s filled with scalding tears.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Harry breathed. “I never thought I’d see you like this again.”

 _“_ Harry,” he whispered soundlessly.

“Dragon.” Harry tightened his grip on the long, silver-blond strands in his fists, forcing Draco’s head back and baring his throat, then he trailed his tongue up it, pausing to suck at the bruise he’d already left there. “Fuck, Dragon. I missed you so much.”

“Harry… please…”

Then Harry began to move and Draco lost all power of speech.

He had forgotten. In all those long years of selling his arse to any man who could meet his price, he had forgotten what it was like to _want_. To ache, down in his guts, for the touch of another man. To meet his thrusts fiercely, hungrily, straining with every nerve and breath to draw him closer and deeper. To look up into his face and see the ecstasy filling it, the pleasure, the release.

He had forgotten all these things, but the moment Harry began to move inside him, they came flooding back with the force of an Unforgivable Curse.

He wanted to see Harry come. Wanted it desperately. Had dreamed of it, lived on the hope of seeing it again, for longer than he cared to think and couldn’t bear to miss it now. So he clung to Harry’s heaving body, arched up to meet his pounding hips, but ruthlessly held his own climax in check until he felt Harry gather himself for the final leap. Then he watched, aching with joy, as his lover came apart buried deep inside him.

It was beautiful. The fierce, brutal power of it. The rush of heat and wetness that fused their bodies together so perfectly. The look on Harry’s face, caught between agony and rapture, that morphed into soft, sated vulnerability. The way he collapsed onto Draco, unstrung, shaking, trusting his love to hold him together until he came back to himself.

Harry trusted him. That was the incredible magic of it. After all these years and all the damage Draco had done—to himself, to Harry, to the entire fucking wizarding world—Harry still trusted him enough to strip himself bare, let go, and lie helpless in Draco’s arms.

Fresh tears gathered in Draco’s eyes, and he lifted his head to bury his face in the black hair tickling his chin.

How had he survived so long without this? Without Harry? How had he endured the emptiness, the loneliness, the hideous brutal fucking that had no love or warmth in it? No _trust?_

He must have sobbed aloud, in spite of his best efforts, because Harry bestirred himself to push up onto his elbows and gaze down at him. Draco let him go, though he didn’t want to. He wanted to cling to his husband-lover and weep into his hair, bathing himself in the other man’s warmth.

“What’s the matter, love?” Harry asked softly.

Draco shook his head, twisted away from those too-green eyes. His tears quickened. Another sob shook him.

“Hey.” Harry’s hand caught his chin and turned him to meet his gaze. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

Draco lifted a hand to touch Harry’s face, to brush his frowning eyebrow, the curve of his cheekbone, the fullness of his kiss-swollen lips. His fingers were trembling. Harry caught them, squeezed them, pressed a kiss to their tips.

“Then what is it? Tell me.”

“I just realized what I did to us. What I cost us, when I chose…” Twisting away again, he gasped, “ _Fuck!_ ” and clenched his eyes shut against his tears.

“Shh, it’s all right.”

Slowly, gently, Harry eased out of Draco’s arse and rolled to one side.

“Don’t go,” Draco pleaded, cringing inwardly at the desperation in his voice, and reached to grab his arm.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Harry landed on the mattress, balanced on his left hip and elbow, then he hooked his right leg over Draco’s and tucked a knee between his thighs. Draco turned his head sharply to the side and found Harry’s lips hovering just above his own. “I’m right here with you, Dragon. Always.”

Draco sighed as Harry’s mouth came down on his, then moaned as Harry’s hand closed around his cock. In the next breath, he was arching up into his lover’s grip, straining into his kiss, and whimpering with need. Harry brought him to a swift, hard climax with his hand and mouth, then he gathered Draco into his arms and held him as the shuddering took him. Draco pressed his body full against Harry’s, oblivious to the come and sweat that smeared them both, letting his mind spiral out into the darkness for a precious minute, trusting his lover as Harry had trusted him.

When he finally drifted back into the present, Draco found himself lying face-to-face with Harry, their limbs tangled together, their lips just touching, various fluids cooling uncomfortably on their skin. He sighed and closed the last distance between their mouths. Harry hummed his pleasure, angled his head, slid his tongue into Draco’s mouth.

They kissed languidly, but with increasing heat, until Harry’s cock was once again hard against Draco’s thighs, and Draco’s was weeping with hunger. Then Harry pulled back and settled his head into the pillow. His fingers trailed down Draco’s face, caught at his lower lip, traced it lovingly.

“I’d forgotten how this feels,” he murmured, echoing Draco’s earlier thoughts. “Wanting someone so much.”

“Me, too,” Draco whispered.

“I think I could love you all night and never stop to rest. Or even to breathe. Merlin, Draco!” He moved in to find Draco’s lips again, groaning softly, “I’ve missed you _so much!_ ”

“I’m right here,” Draco breathed against his mouth, “and I can take whatever you give me. You know I can.”

Harry groaned again, low in his throat, and rolled Draco onto his back. He was already moving urgently, rutting his cock against Draco’s hip, and his pupils were blown wide with lust, but he held himself back long enough to mutter, “I don’t want you to just take it. I want you to _want_ it.”

“I do.” Draco slipped his fingers into his lover’s wild mop of hair and clutched it tightly in his fists. Harry uttered a panting cry that Draco echoed, as the sound shot straight to his groin. “I do, Harry! I… Oh, _f-fuck_ …”

“I’m going to _wreck you_ ,” Harry gasped, as he drove into Draco’s body.

“Y- y- _nngh!_ ” Draco couldn’t speak. He was already lost. With Harry’s first stroke, his first blow to that magical spot deep inside him that turned Draco’s body to flame and his brain to soup, he was away. Spinning out into the night. Flying among the stars that Harry Fucking Potter had lit for him.

He never wanted it to stop, never wanted to come back, until he felt a hand on his cock. Then, in a blinding instant, all the simmering heat in his body shot to its center, pooling in his groin and arcing up his spine. The pain of it—terrible and delicious—dragged him back into his own head and brought his eyes open with a start to find Harry gazing down at him.

His glowing eyes met Draco’s. A smile tilted his swollen, bruised-looking lips, and his tongue slid out to wet them. Hunger spiked in Draco’s guts, making him whimper and reach for the vision above him. Harry caught his head, pulled him into a ravening kiss and, in the same moment, gave an expert twist of his hand.

Draco screamed as he came, shaking in Harry’s arms. He clung to the larger man, face buried in his t-shirt, wetting it with his tears, while Harry held him and murmured softly, “I’ve got you, love. I’ve got you. Shh.”

“Harry,” was all Draco could manage in return.

It wasn’t until Draco began to calm and Harry drew out of him that Draco realized he was still hard as a Beater’s bat. He clutched at Harry, trying to keep him seated, and mumbled thickly, “You didn’t finish.”

“Later.” Harry settled beside him and gathered him up in his arms once more, petting his hair and stroking the tears from his face. “It’s okay, really, I can wait. What just happened for you…” His hand skimmed Draco’s chest and settled around his half-hard cock. “…that’s what I needed. I meant to give it to you the first time, but I couldn’t wait. Couldn’t hold back.”

He kissed Draco softly, first on the lips, then on his wet, fluttering lashes.

“I needed to remind you how it was for us.”

“Thank you,” Draco mouthed soundlessly.

“If you really want to thank me, you’ll tell me what you want the most right now. I mean, right this instant. Don’t think about it, just say it.”

Draco blinked at him. Smiled. Whispered, “A bath.”

Harry broke out in a beatific grin. Bending to plant a quick kiss on Draco’s lips, he bounded out of bed and headed for the bathroom door, calling, “Wait there.”

 

Harry carried Draco into the bathroom as if he were too precious and fragile to be trusted on his own two feet. Draco considered protesting, but he found it much too seductive and didn’t really want to walk when he could stay wrapped in Harry’s arms and Harry’s magic. The room was warm and steamy, filled with the scent of sandalwood and—Draco realized with a start—the rose petals that were strewn on the floor and over the surface of the water. Fat towels hung over a chair pulled close to the tub, while soap, shampoo and a flannel lay on the marble-topped table on the far side. Candles floated above it all, gilding the scene with their flickering light.

It was glorious.

Draco sighed luxuriously, as Harry stepped into the tub and let Draco’s feet drop to rest on the bottom. They moved together, sinking slowly down through the mass of bubbles and flower petals, into the steaming water. Then they settled into their usual positions—Harry leaning against the canted end and Draco lying back on his chest—but this time, there was no wet fabric between them. Only bubbles sliding over their skin.

Harry’s arms slipped beneath Draco’s and closed around his ribs. “This is what I dreamed of, every time we bathed together. You naked in my arms, all soft and slippery and beautiful.”

Draco hummed happily, down low in his chest. Then, abruptly, he twisted around and rose to knees. Looping his arms around Harry’s neck, he melted into him and bent to find his upturned mouth. The warmth of their kiss made him shiver and ache.

“This is what I dreamed of,” he murmured.

In one graceful movement, he swung his leg over Harry’s thighs and settled himself astride his lap. Harry’s cock rose, stiff and proud, between his cheeks, and he rocked his hips, stroking himself with it. Then he reached around to grasp it as he rose onto his knees.

“You don’t have to…” Harry started, only to be cut off by the brush of Draco’s lips.

“Shh.” He guided Harry’s cock into position. “You promised me all night, and I’m going to hold you to it.”

Then he mounted his lover’s Firebolt and began to ride.

 

*** *** ***

 

Harry awoke on to an empty bed. His mind still half lost in sleep, he reached out for the warm body beside his own and found nothing. That snapped him fully awake. Rolling over, he stared at the spot where Draco was supposed to be and felt his stomach drop.

 _No_ , he told himself, _don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe he’s just having a slash._

Pricking his ears, he strained for any sounds coming from the bathroom but heard nothing. Still he refused to dwell on the worst possible scenario.

He let his mind drift back to the night he and Draco had just shared—shagging furiously on the bed, too hot for each other even to peel back the blankets; again in the bath two… no, three times; then back in the bed, curled under the eiderdown, touching and stroking and kissing and swallowing each other down; and finally the shattering moment when Draco had awoken from a nightmare, rolled into Harry’s arms, shivering with horror, murmuring Harry’s name over and over again. That had been more terrifying, more draining, and yet somehow more precious to him than all the sex that came before it, because Draco had not fled from him or their bed. He had turned to him for reassurance. Clung to him.

Trusted him.

There was simply no way that his husband had abandoned their bed to sleep on the settee after last night. Harry was sure of it. Draco was not having a crisis, he was wrapping Christmas presents. Or making breakfast.

A smile broke over Harry’s face at this thought. Throwing back the eiderdown, he bounded to his feet and strode into the bathroom. Less than two minutes later he was back—bladder empty, face scrubbed, hair dragged into its usual state of disarray—scrambling into the first clothing he could find and pulling heavy socks over his feet to ward off the cold of the stone floors downstairs. Then he hurried out of the room.

He caught the sound of someone humming Christmas carols as he drew near the kitchen door and grinned to himself. Of course, it could be Kreacher puttering about in there, preparing breakfast for his master’s beloved Black spouse, but in all the years Harry had known Kreacher, he had never heard him hum. So it came as no surprise to him when he stepped through the doorway to see Draco standing at the sink with a kettle in his hand.

He stood with his back to the room, holding the kettle beneath the tap and doing little dance-steps in time to his humming. He was dressed in a sky-blue nightshirt that hung to the middle of this thighs and a pair of fluffy, white socks. He seemed oblivious to the chill in the room—either that, or he’d cast a whopper of a warming spell.

Harry watched in rapt delight as he flicked off the tap, tossed his head to throw back his silvery curtain of hair, and turned to place the full kettle on the hob. At the same time, he burst out singing, “ _Glo-oooo-oooo-ria! In excelsis deo!_ ”

“Bravo!” Harry called, clapping loudly.

Draco broke off his song and glanced over his shoulder. His smile almost stopped Harry’s heart. Then he turned around, giving Harry a good look at the front of his nightshirt and drawing a whoop of startled laughter from him.

“What in bleeding hell is _that?_ ”

Draco smoothed a hand over the silkscreened image plastered across his chest and stomach. “A flamingo, you ignorant heathen.”

“In a Santa hat?”

“It’s Christmas.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

The flamingo was also wearing huge, fleecy, red boots on its stick-thin legs and had a string of Christmas lights wound up its neck, but Harry didn’t bother to comment on these details. The picture was silly enough in itself, but the sheer Muggleness of it made it look even more ludicrous on his quintessentially magical husband.

Harry loved it.

Circling the table to reach him, Harry caught Draco round the waist and pulled him close. He dropped a kiss on the smiling, upturned lips. Draco returned the kiss, then pulled back

“It’s hideous. What possessed you to buy it?” Harry asked.

“Granger, of course. She dared me, and you know I never back down from a dare.”

“I’m sure you talked her into buying something worse.”

“Oh, hers is much worse. It has _jingle bells_ on it.”

The disgust in his voice made Harry laugh and kiss him again.

“You don’t really dislike it, do you?” Draco murmured against Harry’s teasing lips.

As he spoke, he twisted his hands in the stretchy t-shirt fabric, pulling it tight across his bum and tugging it up to expose one smooth, porcelain cheek. Harry caressed the bare skin appreciatively and grinned down into Draco’s gleaming, winter-grey eyes. Beneath the flimsy shirt, Draco was starkers.

“I think it’s bloody brilliant.”

“I thought you might.”

Catching the smaller man by the thighs, Harry hoisted him up to perch on the edge of the counter. Draco spread his knees and hooked his feet behind Harry’s legs, drawing him in close. Then he tugged the shirt from beneath his arse and hitched it up around his waist. Harry glanced down and saw Draco’s cock jutting up proudly between them, already thick and hard and flushed with anticipation. Harry stared at it, his own prick swelling painfully, while Draco wriggled a bit to bring his body closer to Harry’s. Then he rocked his hips forward, blatantly rubbing his cock against the front of Harry’s joggers and the straining lump inside them.

“Y’know that table over there?” Draco asked.

“Hmm,” was all Harry could manage with his blood rushing straight to his groin.

“Think it would bear our weight?”

“You want me to shag you on the kitchen table?” Harry asked, his hands now gripping Draco’s bare thighs hard enough to bruise, his hips thrusting forward, his cock desperate for contact with its mate.

“Call it my Christmas present.” Draco moved in for a kiss, lips clinging to Harry’s while their bodies strained together. “Or yours,” he amended on a groan.

“I was thinking… right here on the counter…” Harry freed his hands just long enough to push his joggers and pants down to his thighs, freeing his own raging cock, then reached for Draco again.

“Here’s good, too.”

Harry gave a breathless laugh, even as he cast a spell that filled his hand with lube. Pausing for a moment, fist closed, to let it warm a bit, he caught Draco around the waist with his free arm and pulled him roughly forward. Draco came to him eagerly, lifting his legs and falling back on his elbows, then gasping as slick fingers worked into him.

He was beyond ready, Harry knew at a touch, and he never wanted much prep. For all his fragile appearance, Draco liked his sex rough. Even painful, at times. Maybe it had something to do with his years as a sex worker, though Harry doubted that. He’d liked it that way back at Hogwarts, when they were just boys experimenting with their bodies and learning how to please each other. He’d always wanted Harry to use him hard, to demand more than he could easily give, to push and push until he came apart, screaming his name.

Last night had been about gentleness. Rediscovering each other. Reminding his battered husband what love could feel like. Harry had held back so as not to hurt him or to blur the lines between love and power.

Apparently, they were done with holding back.

Draco moaned as Harry pushed a finger into him, his head falling back and his eyes fluttering closed. He took a shuddering breath and twisted his hips, pulling against the intrusive finger.

“ _More,_ ” he groaned.

Harry obligingly pushed in another finger, dragging a panting growl from Draco.

“Stop fucking around, Potter!”

“Hey.” Harry pulled his hand away and put a mock scowl on his face, as Draco lifted his head and cracked open his eyes. “Is this my present or yours?”

“Does it matter?”

“If it’s my present, you have to behave yourself.”

“I never behave myself. And you’re going to fuck me to tears, either way, so get on with it already.”

“Twat. Shut it and come here.”

“Make me.”

Grabbing Draco by the hips, Harry pulled him roughly forward and down. Draco slid off the edge of the counter and onto Harry’s waiting cock, taking it in one long, relentless plunge with no time to adjust. He cried out in delight, head falling back again, chest heaving and legs spreading until the muscles in his thighs stood out like cords. Harry thrust upward, dragging another ragged cry from him, then caught a fistful of his hair and pulled him into a plundering kiss.

It was hot and glorious and as rough as Draco could want—fucking here in the little kitchen with Draco’s hands braced on the counter while he rode Harry’s bucking hips. They were gasping and grunting with the effort, totally ignoring the fact that they had a house-elf in residence who was probably listening to their cries, so lost in the heat of their laboring bodies that they wouldn’t have noticed Kreacher standing right beside them. Harry came first, the sweet agony in his guts exploding in a rush of hot, slick wetness.

He staggered under the onslaught, his knees going weak and his vision swimming with spots. Catching at the counter for support, he leaned into Draco, shuddering atop him, gasping for breath. Draco held him with arms and legs, bit at his throat, sucked bruises into his flesh, and whispered fiercely,

“Don’t stop, Harry!”

“Never,” Harry breathed, even as he tightened both arms around Draco and lifted him away from the counter.

Staggering under the other man’s weight, with his own body limp and drained, Harry stumbled over to the nearest chair and dropped into it, settling Draco astride his lap. Draco lifted his head to gaze at him in lust-addled confusion, then he groaned and fastened his lips to Harry’s. In the next moment, they were once more moving together, hips rocking, thighs working, breaths mingling, rising toward another shattering climax.

Soon Draco was grunting with every breath, every thrust. He threw his head back, eyes closed and lashes twitching, mouth falling open. Harry took one look at him and felt his heart crack.

 _So beautiful_ , he thought, not realizing that he had spoken the words aloud until he heard Draco give a small sob and saw tears glittering in his lashes.

“You are so beautiful,” he repeated, stroking Draco’s bruised, sweat-dampened thigh, then reaching up to caress his throat.

“Harder…” Draco gasped, “please…”

Harry obediently heaved up under him, driving his cock deeper into him and earning a breathless moan in answer.

“Oh, f- fuck… _Fuck! Harry!_ ”

The first tremors gripped Draco, a familiar ecstatic pain contorting his features, and his words turned to a long, formless, guttural cry. Harry drove into him once more, then caught him in both arms as he slumped forward, body convulsing with pleasure. Hot, slick juices pumped across Harry’s belly, soaking his shirt. Draco collapsed against him, going boneless in his arms, and his head dropped to Harry’s shoulder.

Harry held him for a long, shuddering minute, petting his back and hair to soothe him. He didn’t dare break the silence until Draco finally stirred and lifted his head. Using Harry’s shoulders for leverage, Draco pushed himself upright and looked down at his husband with blurred, tear-bright eyes.

He smiled. Bent to rest his forehead against Harry’s. “So whose present was it?”

Harry grinned. “Both, I think.”

Draco sighed his agreement and brought his lips to Harry’s in a long, sweet, sated kiss. “Happy Christmas, Mr. Potter.”

“Happy Christmas, Dragon.”

 

**_Finis_ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am working on a sequel to this story that ties up all those messy ends. I'll start posting soon. If you're interested in reading it, please subscribe to the "In the Mirror" series.
> 
> Thank you for reading my story! Please let me know what you think of it!


End file.
